


Tint & Shade

by forestofbabel



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Divergence - Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, M/M, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, art therapist steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-12-16 15:30:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11831628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forestofbabel/pseuds/forestofbabel
Summary: The man blinked, slow and heavy.  His pale blue eyes didn’t seem to be seeing the world around him.  “Joe?”Steve took the peroxide out of the man’s hands and shook his head.  “I’m not –”"How’d you make it out?”Steve stilled for a moment before putting the peroxide aside and peeling back the man’s hoodie.  The guy was delirious.“I thought Hydra killed you,” he murmured.Steve got one arm out of the hoodie, relaxing a bit at the man’s words.  Whatever he’d been through, he wasn’t on Hydra’s side.“Fearless Captain Rogers.  Course you made it out.  Bet you kicked those Nazis right in the head.”Steve pulled back.  Captain Joe Rogers?  Joseph Rogers.  That was his grandfather’s name.  He’d died in World War II.  This guy couldn’t possibly be talking about him.--Somewhere between the fall of Shield due to a long running Hydra infiltration, finding out that his land lord is an Avenger, and being commissioned for some truly gaudy paintings, Steve finds himself harboring the worlds most wanted.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first ever Big Bang I've participated in and I couldn't be more thrilled to have done it. I got the chance to work with an absolutely wonderful artist (pterodactyl for Sophie aka [ensign-cannonfodder](http://ensign-cannonfodder.tumblr.com) on tumblr)!!! 

“I don’t know, Sam,” Steve said into the phone jammed between his ear and shoulder.  “The tour I did last year was to introduce V.A.’s to art therapy so they can start their own programs, not so I can come back every few months and teach a session.”  Steve hefted his grocery bags up into a better grip.  His mini cart had snapped a wheel and he hadn’t gotten around to fixing it yet.  “And if I keep disrupting my patient’s therapy, like, that’s not going to help anyone.”

Sam laughed, the sound crackling over the speaker.  Steve had dropped his phone one too many times, but was past warranty.  “This is more of a relocation request, man.  You’re the best, and you’re all alone in New York.  Come on, man.  There’s always going to be patients who need you.  But you also got to think of yourself.”

Steve grunted, trying to dig his keys out of his pocket without putting the bag down.  He was winded from the walk and had left his inhaler inside his apartment.  Stupid.  “You could always come up to New York.”

Sam sighed.  “Yeah, okay.  I get where you’re coming from.  Hard to leave home.” 

Steve had to set his bags down to catch his breath while he waited for the elevator, thanking the universe it wasn’t broken today.  He had wanted the top floor apartment to get more natural light for his studio space.  Steve wavered daily as to if that was the right choice.  “Besides, it’s not like I have _nobody_ ,” Steve insisted. 

“Your landlord doesn’t count, dude.”

“I suppose neither do co-workers?” Steve asked.  The door opened and he pushed all his groceries into the elevator with his foot.  “So, if I moved to DC you’d be a nobody, too.” 

“You’re such a smarmy ass,” Sam laughed. “Look, I gotta go.  I won’t ask again about relocation, promise.  But you should come and visit sometime soon.”

“I’ll see when my schedule clears up,” Steve promised.  “Talk later.”

“Bye, Steve.” 

When he reached his floor, Steve dragged his bags to his door and quickly got inside to grab his forgotten inhaler.  His melting ice cream would have to wait until he could breathe again. 

Steve found his inhaler sitting neatly next to his paints.  As he took a much needed breath in, there came a desperate knocking on the door and an excited bark.  Steve went to open the door and was immediately pounced on by the one-eyed dog the tenants liked to think of as their mascot. 

“Hey, Lucky,” Steve laughed before sneezing.  He was allergic, but that didn’t stop him from loving the mutt.  Steve sometimes would treat him to high end dog food since Clint, Lucky’s owner, tended to feed him pizza.  He didn’t think that seemed healthy.

“Steve!” Clint cried out, dropping a duffle next to the coat rack.  “Can you do me a huuuuuuuuge favor?  I have to go out of town last minute.” Clint tried to detangle himself from the leash he had surprisingly bothered to put on the dog.  “My friend Nat called for my help and that’s like a nuclear level what have you.  She doesn’t need help for shit.  So, if she’s _asking_.  Her boss was in some sort of car crash, I guess.” 

Steve sighed, petting Lucky.  He looked at the bag Clint had dumped.  Toys and food, no doubt.  “Yeah,” Steve said, “okay.” He sneezed again.  He’d have to go back to the store and stock up on Benadryl. 

Clint finally detangled himself and immediately lifted Steve into a hug and swung him in a circle.  “You’re the actual best, you know that?  If anyone needs like, land lordy stuff, just hire someone to fix it.  There’s a checkbook in the duffle.  I trust you not to like steal all my money.”

“You’re going to get robbed so bad one of these days,” Steve insisted. 

Clint shrugged.  “I can steal it back.”

Steve laughed.  “How long do you think you’ll be gone?”

“A couple days?  A week?” Clint guessed, scratching his cheek, “A month?”

“A month!” Lucky whined and Steve shushed him.  “Sorry buddy.”  He looked back up at Clint with a sort of rage that normally made people laugh.  It was always incongruent to see someone so tiny get as angry as Steve sometimes did.  “I can’t take over Lucky and the whole _building_ for a month!”

Clint winced, clearly uncomfortable.  “Sorry, Steve.  I’d ask my niece but she’s on a fucking cruise.  Look, I’m not really sure what I’m getting myself into here.  I’ll keep you up to date.   Uh, I gotta go.”  Clint backed up.

“Clint!” Steve called out, trying to stop him.  “Clint, I swear to god!” 

“Sorry, I can’t hear you, I’m deaf!” Clint called as he ran down the hall. 

Steve sighed and shut his door.  Lucky stared up at him, his tail hitting the floor in steady thumps.  “Guess it’s just you and me then, dude.”  Lucky barked. 

It was a few days later the news hit the television.  Two top Shield agents were being displayed as public enemy number one.  Clint Barton and Natasha Romanov.  Steve stared at the screen, trying his hardest to process the fact his landlord was a Shield agent.  Former Shield agent?  His first thought was, shit, he was going to be stuck with Lucky, wasn’t he? 

Not that Steve didn’t love the dog, but his allergies were hard to manage sometimes. 

Then Steve started worrying about Clint.  Like, okay, so he was secretly a Shield agent so he must be somewhat good at his job, but the man was a bit of a mess.  He needed help sometimes, didn’t he?  Steve had once found the man trapped on the roof naked. 

Steve called fourteen times before Clint picked up.  “Yo!  How’s my dog?”

A woman’s voice could be heard in the background promising to neuter Clint for still having a phone on him at all. 

“What the hell is going on, Clint!” Steve screamed.  “I see you on TV.  You’re _Hawkeye_ and your friend Nat is _Black Widow_?  Like, you guys fought aliens last year.”

“Yo, buddy.  Calm down before you give yourself an asthma attack,” Clint said.  “Everything’s fine.  Nat and I just almost got blown up.  It’s chill.”

“The TV says you’re criminals,” Steve whispered into the phone. 

Clint sighed.  “Half of Shield is Hydra.  They’re trying to eliminate threats to their operation.”

Steve looked down at Lucky who had his head rested on Steve’s lap.  He should have known, he should have _noticed_ that Clint was military.  Steve worked with veterans four days of the week.  But the way Clint talked now, just that last sentence, it was like a flip was switched from fumbling landlord to secret agent.  Steve swallowed the lump in his throat.  He may not know Clint Barton the Shield Agent, but he knew Clint.  For all his faults, he was a good man. 

After a moment of contemplation, Steve decided Sam wouldn’t hate him too much for getting him involved.  “If you need a place to lay low, I have a friend in D.C.”  Steve hoped he wouldn’t regret this. 

X

Steve regretted this.  So much.  He’d hotwired Clint’s car that had been left in the garage.  It was probably twenty years old and Steve had prayed it wouldn’t break down the whole drive to D.C.

Now Steve sat beside Clint’s hospital bed.  He’d gone to visit Sam first.  The Falcon.  Steve had slapped his arm for not telling him about his pararescue wings.  His injuries weren’t that bad: a scrapped-up face, a bruised rib or two.  No broken bones, no lasting damages. 

Steve held him for ten full minutes after the idiot got discharged.  He shooed Sam out of the hospital, though, insisting he’d stay with Clint until the other birdbrain woke up.  Sam should get home and get some sleep in his own bed after everything that happened.

When Steve had turned on the news to see the destruction in D.C., he nearly had a heart attack.  As it was, he had to take a long pull of his inhaler and sit with his head between his knees until the world stopped spinning.  Everything Clint had told him was true: Shield was Hydra.  And now the world knew it, the evidence coming to everyone in a fiery crash of some doomsday airships and a data dump of the entire agency’s system filing. 

People were already decrypting sections, collaborating to parse through as much as possible. 

Worst, however, was seeing his good friend flying around the whole action and being nearly shot out of the sky.  Sam had filled him in on some of the details, like how they had to manually replace a data file or something.  Clint had to face this man they called the Winter Soldier.  Apparently, Clint shot him with five taser arrows before getting the task done and getting out of the crashing ship, significantly worse for wear.

Finally, Clint opened his eyes.  Or, well, one eye.  Steve didn’t think he _could_ open the other at the moment.  “Well if you’re here,” his scratchy voice filled the oppressively quiet hospital room, “who’s taking care of Lucky?”

“America said she’d take him for a walk and feed him after classes got out,” Steve said, reaching for the glass of water a nurse had left.  He helped Clint take a sip.  “You really know how to take a beating.  I should know.  Champion bully magnet right here.”

Clint laughed slightly before wincing in pain.

There was a gentle rap of knuckles at the door.  A woman with hard eyes and a too casual lean against the door was watching them with a hint of a smile.  Steve recognized her as the other rogue agent on the news with Clint. 

“Doctor said they’re going to keep you for the night.  Probably don’t want you going far if you can help it,” she said, voice smoky and cautiously playful. 

“You finally going to take me home?  Meet the parents?” Clint joked. 

The redhead rolled her eyes before fixing them on Steve.  “Sam’s friend?”

Steve nodded.  She sat down on the other side and looked him over.  “Natasha,” she offered.

“Steve.”

“Clint!” Clint cheered weakly.  Natasha gave him a fond look and Steve knew Clint was in good hands. 

“I’m worried to leave you,” Steve said.  “You almost died, what, six times in the one week we’ve been separated?”  Steve stood anyway, stretching.  He’d been waiting next to Clint’s bed for hours before the man decided to wake up. 

“I’ll be fine, Steve,” Clint jeered. 

“Well, then I guess we just have to hope _I_ survive the drive back in your, what is it, 1980s Oldsmobile?”  He patted his pockets to make sure he had his wallet and keys.  He’d stop by the convenience store on the way out and grab some water and snacks. 

“You stole my car?” Clint asked in disbelief.  “Wait a minute, I lost the keys to that half a year ago!  Have you been using my car the whole time?”

Steve looked at Clint like he was crazy.  “You haven’t had your keys for half a year?”  He looked up to Natasha to confirm that this man really was a super secret spy agent.  She only shrugged.  “And, no.  I hotwired it.”

Natasha looked mildly impressed.  “And where’d a sweet boy like you learn to hotwire a car?”

Steve blushed, but not because of a beautiful woman’s intense gaze.  “YouTube,” he lied.  In reality, Steve had a bit of a juvenile record.  He got picked on a lot for being so small and skinny.  He hadn’t hit a growth spurt to push him past five-foot-nothing until he was in college.  Even now he was only five-four.  One particular bully almost ran Steve over as a “prank”, so Steve dutifully took his car for a joy ride and left it abandoned in the Bronx.   “I’ll leave you to it.  But I can’t keep managing the building on top of my actual job for much longer.  Get back soon, okay?”

“Promise,” Clint said. 

“I’ll get him back home soon,” Natasha promised.  Steve believed her more than Clint.  Hopefully he’d have his life back before long.

X

By the time Steve got home, he wanted to do nothing more than crawl into bed and not wake up for the next ten hours, minimum.  He’d spent the better part of the last two days between a car and a hospital.  The clock in Clint’s car had been flashing zeros so he didn’t even know what time it was until he got out and could check his phone. 

He couldn’t seem to get back into the garage under the complex and had to find street parking a block over.  It was a bit dark, more than one street light out.  Steve knew there were a lot of homeless in the area, and a gang that still hovered around the territory.  It was a cheaper area of Brooklyn that hadn’t been gentrified yet and fairly free of hipsters. 

Steve hadn’t felt afraid or anything.  He knew the homeless in the area fairly well, giving them what he could, encouraging them to find help at local shelters, bringing them to the V.A. if they were vets.  The gang guys normally left him alone except the few times he saw them cornering a girl.  Then Steve got involved and beat up a bit.  Still, even this late, he felt safe on the streets.  It was _his_ neighborhood.

Which is why, when he heard a pained groan down a side alley, Steve’s first instinct was to make sure whoever it was, was okay. 

“Hello?” he called out, pulling up the flashlight on his phone.  “Marty?”  If it was one of the guys he normally found in this area, Steve would have better chance of convincing them to go to an emergency clinic. 

Whoever had made the noise was silent now, but the clothes line between Mrs. Jones and Mrs. Ballinger’s windows was bouncing.  There was an empty spot on the side and Steve sighed.  “If you need clothes that bad, let me take you to Good Will.  I understand that you’re probably in a tight situation, but it’s better to ask for help then take what’s not yours.”

There was a rustle coming from behind the dumpster.  A clack of metal on metal and another pained groan.  He waited for Marty or Rick or Skeeter to pop out so he could get them patched up and maybe fed.  It was too late to bring them to a shelter, but if they were hurt he’d take them in for a night.

What Steve wasn’t expecting was a new guy.  He was wearing a beat up hoodie that was soaked through with blood, long matted hair spilled out from under a baseball cap, and black tactical pants.  He had a new shirt and a pair of jeans in one hand, and gun pointing straight at Steve in the other.

Steve went from tired and concerned to wide awake and paralyzed in fear in point two seconds.  He raised his hands, dropping his cell phone.  The flashlight was muted almost completely against the ground.  What little light had made its way into the alley glinted off the gun and Steve nearly wept. 

Still, through all that fear and adrenaline, the first words out of his mouth were “You’re hurt.”  His brain registered the tactical pants the stranger was wearing, too nice for anything other than military use.  “Were you in D.C.?”  Not all the fighting happened in Washington.  Once word got out that Shield had been compromised from within, every base turned into a warzone.  Steve didn’t know if there was on in NYC, but he wouldn’t put it past the organization.  But if this guy was still on the run, maybe he was Hydra?  Steve’s heartbeat sky rocketed.  _Fuck_.

The man with the gun groaned again and collapsed onto one knee.  The moment the gun dropped, Steve stupidly rushed _towards_ him.  It didn’t matter right now if this man was Hydra or Shield.  He was bleeding out in a back alley and Steve could do something.

“Hey, hey.  We need to get you to the hospital.  You’re –”

The gun was back pointing at him.  He was close enough that despite the darkness Steve could make out the man’s face.  It was pale and clammy, eyes swimming in and out of focus.  Steve was going to get himself shot.

The man took in a ragged breath and titled his head to the side, staring at Steve in confusion.  “Joe?”  The gun dropped completely from his hand and the man feel further to the ground.  Steve swooped quickly to help the guy up. 

“That’s it, I’m taking you to the hospital.”  He could bring the guy back to Clint’s car.  It wouldn’t take too long and traffic wasn’t bad this time of night.

The man grasped his arm tightly, too tightly. He felt like his arm might break. 

“No hospitals,” the man huffed out.  “Joe.  You can’t let them find me.”

Steve didn’t know what to do.  The guy was bleeding out in his arms but he was still so strong, Steve could get his neck snapped if he tried to bring the guy to the hospital.  Fuck.

“Just around the corner,” Steve said, picking up his cell phone.  “We’ll get you cleaned up, okay.” 

Steve’s apartment was all the way up on the fifth floor and the elevator was broken again.  He figured it would be easier to just drag the bleeding agent down to Clint’s basement apartment.  Besides, Clint had more first aid than Steve, which was saying something.

In the lights of Clint’s apartment, Steve was able to get a better look at his attacker.  The hoodie had probably also been filched.  When Steve got the zipper down, his black shirt underneath was riddled with bullet holes and other gashes.  It was a miracle the man wasn’t dead already.

“I’m really not qualified to patch this up,” Steve said.

“It’ll heal,” the man huffed.  He picked the bottle of peroxide out of the kit Steve had brought over and began to just pour it over his open wounds.

“Jesus,” Steve hissed.  “Stop that.” He grabbed the man’s wrist and was shocked by how hard it was.  That wasn’t flesh and bone.  “Come on, let me help you.”

The man blinked, slow and heavy.  His pale blue eyes didn’t seem to be seeing the world around him.  “Joe?”

Steve took the peroxide out of the man’s hands and shook his head.  “I’m not –”

“How’d you make it out?”

Steve stilled for a moment before putting the peroxide aside and peeling back the man’s hoodie.  The guy was delirious. 

“I thought Hydra killed you,” he murmured.

Steve got one arm out of the hoodie, relaxing a bit at the man’s words.  Whatever he’d been through, he wasn’t on Hydra’s side. 

“Fearless Captain Rogers.  Course you made it out.  Bet you kicked those Nazis right in the head.”

Steve pulled back.  _Captain Joe Rogers_?  Joseph Rogers.  That was his grandfather’s name.  He’d died in World War II.  This guy couldn’t possibly be talking about him.  But it was eerie. 

Steve went pack to getting the man’s hoodie off so he could cut off the ruined shirt and clean out his injuries.  He was expecting a prosthetic of some kind, the too hard wrist and the gloved hand suggested as much.

He wasn’t expecting the sleek silver and red star that had been streaming over every news channel.

Steve took too long staring at the metal arm.  His heartbeat raced too fast, like long nights at grad school when he had one too many Monster energy drinks.  This was the Winter Soldier.  It couldn’t be anyone else.  This was the man who nearly killed his land lord and his best friend.  This was a Hydra agent.  _The_ Hydra agent, if what Sam relayed had any backing to it.

What was he supposed to do?

The Winter Solider groaned again, clutching at his stomach.  He threw his head back and panted heavily, all color gone from his face. 

It didn’t matter.  This man could be dying.  He was sick.  He was confused.  Steve didn’t need to know if he was a Hydra mastermind or a serial killer.  The man was a soldier, fresh out of combat, and bleeding out from poorly patched up wounds.  Steve couldn’t let him die.

Steve was an art therapist, but he knew more than his fair share about first aid.  His mother had been a nurse and Steve had been beaten up more than was statistically average.  He knew how to dress a wound in almost any area.  He’d seen his mother at work, too.  After his father died, Steve had spent a number of afternoons hanging out at the hospital, even when he wasn’t sick.  He had also been sick a lot, but that was a different story.  The point was, Steve may not be certified to be patching up someone with multiple bullet holes, knife wounds, and what was clearly a puncture wound from Clint’s arrow now that he knew what he was looking at, but Steve _could_ patch these up without calling Miss Temple upstairs for help.

He hoped.

Steve found a pair of scissors and cut the black and bloody shirt off so the soldier didn’t have to move too much.  The peroxide the guy had poured over himself was causing blood to sluice down his hyper defined muscles.

“Holy fuck,” Steve whispered, panicking slightly as his sudden and completely inappropriate reaction to seeing the man’s bare torso. 

The man muttered something in what was maybe Russian before his head dipped forward.  Steve took a steadying breath before picking up a cotton ball and wiping at all the open wounds.  It seemed he had self-cauterized the worst of them, which was a horrifying concept.  Steve thought he put gunpowder in there to do it.  The one on his stomach might be infected. 

Clint, maybe not surprisingly now that Steve knew he was actually a fucking Avenger, had the proper needle and medical thread for stitches.  Steve sloppily sewed together part of the other man’s side.  He seemed mostly out of it, which was good because Steve didn’t have a way to numb anything. 

Steve didn’t have to dig out any slugs, and only because it seemed that the solider had already done it.  Steve nearly threw up at the prospect.  After wrapping up the rest of it, he carefully tried to take the man’s pulse.  Steve couldn’t be certain, but based on the timeline and how he was still on the run and bleeding, chances were that the man was dehydrated and hadn’t eaten much if anything.

“Hey,” Steve whispered, tapping the man’s face gently.  “Hey, wake up, you need to eat something.”

The man muttered again in whatever Slavic language he knew and Steve shivered at how distinctly different he seemed than earlier.  This wasn’t the same soldier that recognized Steve as “Captain Joe Rogers.”  His eyes were darker, sharper even in their inability to focus. 

He repeated his sharp Slavic words, grabbing Steve’s wrist too tight in his metal hand.  Steve gasped, jumping straight back to that fight or flight adrenaline rush that had taken over him when the gun had been pointed at his face.  This man was half a foot through death’s door, but he was still dangerous. 

“I just want to get you something to eat and drink,” Steve said as steadily as possible.  “Water.  Maybe bread if you can stomach it.”

The man had been speaking fluent English ten minutes ago but Steve truly wondered if the soldier understood him now.  Steve had worked with a lot of vets.  Soldiers who had been tortured, soldiers who accidentally killed a civilian, soldiers who got too used to killing, soldiers who had been prisoners of war for months, for years.  Steve worked with vets who had lost limbs and vets who had come back whole and yet completely torn apart.  With this man, though, Steve wasn’t sure what he was dealing with.  The soldier swayed, lack of blood getting to him again.  His eyes cleared for a moment and Steve was speaking to yet another fraction of the soldier’s confused mind. 

He was silent, tracing the lines of Steve’s face with his eyes before taking in the rest of the apartment.  He didn’t let go of Steve’s wrist, but stared at it curiously before looking back at Steve.

“Do I know you?” the soldier asked.

Steve swallowed thickly.  How could he answer that?  “You were bleeding.  I’ve patched you up.  You need water.”

The soldier let go of his wrist and Steve stood, heading to the kitchen in too quick steps.  This wasn’t the ruthless mercenary Clint and Sam believed him to be.  This was someone who had lost his identity.  _What did they do to you_? Steve thought as he searched Clint’s kitchen.

He shoved some bread in the toaster and found a Gatorade in the fridge that might be better than plain water to help refuel electrolytes.  Steve wished he had taken a nursing course or even sports medicine in undergrad.  He might have been more prepared for this insane possibility.  At least he knew first aid to the extent of doing home stitches. 

Steve brought the Gatorade over while he waited for the toast.  The soldier stared at the orange drink with suspicion.  “You can check the seal, I haven’t done anything to it.”

The soldier looked up with a frown, staring intently at Steve’s face.  “Do I know you?” he repeated, ignoring the offered drink. 

“You called me Joe,” Steve offered, unsure if that’s what the soldier was thinking of.  The soldier only stared, gap mouthed and eyes not quite focused.  “Here,” Steve said, motioning the Gatorade to him again. When the soldier stared at the drink with a frown, Steve opened it and took a sip before handing it over.  The soldier took it with caution but ultimately drowned half of it in one go.  Steve hoped he didn’t throw up.

“Joe,” the soldier said after setting the drink down. 

Steve shook his head.  “Uh, no, my name’s Steve.  Steve Rogers.”

“Captain Rogers.  They took you.  I couldn’t stop them.  Must have starved you half to death.”

Steve flushed, knowing he was exceptionally skinny.  A lot of people thought he was anorexic, but Steve just couldn’t seem to put on weight.  He went back to the kitchen for the toast that had popped up.  He thought about snagging a slice for himself, but if the soldier was up for eating, he wanted to give it to him.

“What’s your name?” he asked, handing the plate of toast over.

Something flipped in the soldier’s brain.  He froze, hand half reached for the plate.  He was no longer the man who spoke Russian, nor the man who thought Steve was Joe, nor the man who seemed confused by everything.  The soldier had turned hard, closed off, but also very much on the verge of breaking completely apart.

“Barnes, James Buchanan; Sergeant; 3-2-5-5-7-0-3-8.”

“What?” Steve asked, taken aback.  Some of the vets he worked with talked about their time as a POW, about being tortured.  But never this. 

“Barnes, James Buchanan; Sergeant; 3-2-5-5-7-0-3-8,” the soldier repeated.  Again.  And again.

They were instructed upon torture to give this information.  Name, rank, serial number. 

“What did they do you?” Steve said out loud this time, tears welling up.  He came over carefully to the soldier’s, to James’s side.  He wasn’t sure if he should touch him or not.  “Hey, James?  James.”

James startled, blinking rapidly as he took in his location. 

Steve offered the toast again.  “Try to eat something.”

It took about five minutes to get James to eat half a slice of toast and finish the Gatorade.  By then, both of them were struggling to keep their eyes open.  All the adrenaline had left Steve and he was crashing hard.  He led James to Clint’s bed, hoping his land lord wouldn’t mind.  The soldier was fairly pliant at this point, the dazed and confused version of himself Steve had been dealing with.  Steve helped James out of his tactical pants.  There was nothing remotely sexual about it, which Steve was thankful for.  He couldn’t have his body betraying him at this point. 

After getting James into the bed, Steve almost fell asleep right there next to him.  But he forced himself to go back over to Clint’s couch.

X

Steve woke up when 70 pounds of fur and slobber jumped on his chest.  He gasped awake, blinking at the sunlight that was coming through the basement windows at the top of the walls.  America, the young Latina girl who lived on the second floor, popped her bubblegum and gave him an unimpressed look.  Steve gently shoved Lucky to the floor and sat up.

“It’s past noon, _Mr. Rogers_ ,” she snorted.  America always thought it was funny his name was the same as the children’s television host.  Especially because he acted super “Mister Rogery”, apparently.  “Why the fuck you sleeping on the couch?”

“Language,” he reminded her. 

America only popped her gum again.  “You gonna sleep all day or what?  I know it’s Saturday, but I got a party to go to and you need to take back this needy furball.” 

Steve sneezed and sighed.  “Yeah, I’m up.  Thanks for taking care of him.”

America shrugged.  “Eh, he’s cute.  You get beat up again or somethin’?”

Steve frowned before noticing the mess around the couch.  The first aid kit was out and there was a bloody hoodie on the floor.  Steve scrambled out to his feet, remembering everything that had happened after getting back last night and ran to the bedroom. 

It was empty.  No sign of the soldier except the small pile of clothes on the floor… which might have already been there.  But Steve was sure that James had taken something clean to wear before disappearing.  He hoped he ate, too.  And that he was safe.  If anyone found him like this, chances were they’d arrest the winter soldier and never take into account that the man was terribly sick in the head, probably tortured beyond belief before being forced to work for Hydra.

“Mr. Rogers?” America called out.  He returned to the living room where she was petting Lucky.  “You okay?”

Steve nodded.  “Yeah.  I’m fine.  Hey, if you see any new guys on the street, can you let me know?”

She gave him a two finger salute and popped her gum again.  “See you ‘round then.” 

He watched her go before picking up the mess he had made last night.  He went a bit overboard and simply started cleaning Clint’s place.  As he put away the clothes that were strewn about Clint’s bedroom, he felt a light breeze hit him.  He looked up to the only window in the room, four feet above the head of Clint’s bed.  It was open, just a crack.  And the bars had been removed. 

“How in the world?” Steve whispered.

He had to stack a couple of items on top of Clint’s bed to reach the window properly, but it was plenty big enough for him to slip through.  Perhaps even big enough for James to squeeze out.  The window bars were sitting on the ground of the alley.  Steve looked up.  The clothes James had tried to steal were pinned neatly to the clothes line between Mrs. Jones and Mrs. Ballinger’s windows. 

Later that day, Steve went out into the alley to try and fix the bars.  He also brought his paints.  He left a message over Clint’s window.

_James, if you need to find me, I’m on the fifth floor.  You’ll know which one.  -Joe_


	2. Chapter 2

Steve worried about James all afternoon while at work.  He had a handful of sessions and a group therapy class he had to get through before racing home.  Plus, he still had to walk Lucky.  That had to take precedence over James. 

The thing is, Steve loved his job and he took special care with all his clients.  But he wasn’t perfect and on days like today when something was distracting Steve, he felt guilty for not being able to give his full attention to the vets he was here to help.

Heck, Steve felt guilty for considering handing off Lucky to someone else so he could spend more time trying to find the super soldier who had held a gun up at him the day before. 

It was stupid to think Steve would be able to find the Winter Soldier in New York City.  Steve would be hard pressed to find one of his regular clients if they didn’t turn up for a session.  The city was too large, too busy, and too easy to slip into obscurity.  James was a highly trained assassin.  Media reports on the Winter Soldier were calling him a ghost.  Steve could have the former Shield at his fingertips and still not find James.

The thought made him itch to get home, just in case the soldier came back and left because Steve wasn’t there.  It was foolish to believe that James would return just because Steve looked like this Joe guy, or because Steve was kind to him, or because Steve wanted him to.  It was foolish and stupid and it gnawed at Steve’s gut worse than one of the many flus he’s beaten over the years. 

“You okay there, Mr. Rogers?”

Steve looked up from where he was washing out paintbrushes to see Eli, one of the younger men he treated at the V.A.  Steve sat in on group sometimes to get a better understanding of what the vets had gone through, but he had never heard Elijah speak up.  It was clear he was struggling with drug abuse, which wasn’t uncommon.  But he was so young.  Shipped off at eighteen, home by nineteen and too shaken to do much more than squish clay between his fingers.  He was a good kid.  Angry, mostly.  He wanted to help more, Steve thinks.  Eli had quickly learned there wasn’t a lot of helping going on overseas.

“Yeah, fine,” Steve lied, shaking his head.  He swept back the wisps of blonde hair that fell into his eyes and sighed.  “Had a long night, is all.  How about you?  Thought any more about what it is you’re making?”

Steve had given Eli an assignment that it didn’t matter what he made, but he had to make something.  By the end of every session he could be adding onto the piece he already started but it couldn’t just be pieces of clay too kneaded to mush back together.  What he had so far was a few geometric shapes.  Building blocks, Steve called them.

Eli shrugged.  “My grandpa was in the army,” he offered. 

“So was mine,” Steve smiled, glad that Eli was reaching out on his own.  “Died in a P.O.W. camp in Austria.”  Captain Joseph Rogers of the 107th.  The whole unit went missing.  Some of the bodies were never found.  Steve’s father was only two at the time. 

Eli lifted his chin in some kind of acknowledgement.  “Ma always said they experimented on him ‘cause he was black and disposable.” 

Steve scratched at his cheek.  “I want to say that’s not true, but knowing history it’s a very real possibility.”  He firmly believed there was no point in lying to make something seem nicer.  Part of recovery was being able to see the world clearly.

Eli nodded.  That was all he said until the session was over, a group class with five other vets all working on their own projects.  Eli had made a stack of clay triangles, though, and maybe he had started a project after all.  Something to honor his grandfather.  Something to stand for all the things Eli had wanted out of the military but couldn’t get.  Or maybe Steve was speculating.  Either way Steve put Eli’s triangles out to dry with care before packing up and leaving for the day.

Normally on days Steve didn’t have private art classes he would stick around a bit, but he was anxious.  It took thirty-five minutes to get home on a good day.  Today, of course, wasn’t a good day.  His train was delayed fifteen minutes, he got shoved so hard trying to navigate his way through the crowds that he got knocked to the ground and busted up his hands on some loose gravel, and his bag split on the last leg of his trip after getting out of the subway.  Steve was holding his papers in hands that stung like firecrackers and he was still holding out for something to go right.

Steve knew he had to take Lucky out for a walk, but he raced up to his apartment first to drop his broken bag and wash his hands first.  Then he could check to see if James had come by at all.  And maybe –

Steve dropped all of his things, arms loose at his sides as papers and brushes scattered across his floor.  He was here.  The Winter Soldier – James – someone in between, was standing in his living room with a frown on his face.  He looked so young, just then, too much like the veterans who were sent home without any support other than the underfunded hand the V.A. could reach out.  Alone, confused, lost without orders or gunfire to direct their next steps.

“I think I used to live here,” James said, eyes firmly fixed out the window.  “You can see Manhattan Bridge from here.”

“Here?” Steve asked.  He was still a little shell shocked from seeing the man again.  He had hoped, sure, but when had that ever given results?  “In this building?”

James shrugged.  “The view’s the same, I think.  There’re more buildings now.  Hard to say.”  He turned around and looked Steve over.  “Your hands are bleeding.” 

Steve looked down.  His palms had been scrapped up pretty bad.  Some of the papers on the ground were spotted red.  He hoped none of them were official documents he needed to keep on record.  “It’s fine.  Let me just.”  Steve rushed over to the kitchen sink, too worried about leaving James’s sight now that he was back.  He washed his hands and held a paper towel to the worst of it. 

James was staring at him, long and hard.  It sent a shiver down Steve’s spine.  “You’re not Joe,” James said.

Steve shook his head slowly.  “No.  No, I told you last night.  My name’s Steve.  Steve Rogers.”

James frowned.  “You look just like him.  Blonde hair, blue eyes, sharp jaw.  I think he might have been taller.  And you look starved.  Joe got really skinny towards the end.  War’s not good for keeping meat on the bone.”

Steve leaned against the counter and frowned.  The photos Steve had seen of his grandfather showed a healthy man.  He was probably about Steve’s own age when he went M.I.A. during the second World War.  He hadn’t been a large fellow, but he was hearty and healthy, especially compared to Steve.  It didn’t seem possible.  The man in front of him looked no older than thirty, and that was maybe stretching it.  He couldn’t have known his grandfather.

A ghost, they called him. 

Steve stared back at James.  Then again, Steve reminded himself, it wasn’t all that long ago aliens invaded, a couple of Norse gods were proven to exist, and a giant green man fought a giant grey man over in Harlem.  Maybe a soldier who didn’t die, didn’t age, was on that list of impossible things come true. 

“James –”

“Bucky.”

“What?”

His eyes were deep in thought for a breath or two before he looked back at Steve.  “They called me Bucky.  _I_ … I called me Bucky.”

Steve smiled, soft and cautious.  “Bucky.  Can I show you something?”

James – Bucky paused to think, unsure how to handle a question rather than a command.  With slow movements, like he was remembering what it was to make a choice for himself, Bucky nodded. 

Steve went to search for his old family album.  He didn’t have much.  It was just him and his mom growing up, and with all of Steve’s medical bills they didn’t have much spare cash for things like disposable cameras.  But his mom had kept the photos handed down both from her own family and her late husband’s.  What she had fit neatly into three albums she had carefully put together.  Steve tugged out the faded blue album and flipped through to find his grandpa Joe’s army photo. 

It was a bit battered and faded, but he stood in his dress uniform with a proud look on his face.  It had been taken only months before shipping out.  They did look alike.  Steve got all his features from the side of his family he never got to know. 

“Is this who you thought I was?” Steve asked, handing over the photo album. 

Bucky took the book with his flesh hand and stared at the old photo.  “This isn’t you.”

“No.”

“This is Joe.  Captain Rogers.” 

“Yes.”

Bucky dropped the album.  A scream tore out of his throat like lion’s roar.  He clutched his head and squeezed his eyes shut, breath as sharp as razor blades.

“Bucky!”

The man didn’t seem to hear him.  It was a reaction he’d seen before in vets when stimulation became too much.  An extreme reaction to PTSD, an attempt to ‘force the images out’.  They became wild and aggressive with their motions, unseeing reality and trapped in their nightmares.  Normally, if Steve was working with veterans prone to lashing out, there were staff nearby to help out.

But her Steve was alone and this man could be deadly.

“James!” he tried, since the nickname didn’t catch his attention.  Bucky continued hitting his head, panicked yells intermittent with the hard thunks of his fist to skull.  Steve worried that with that metal hand Bucky would actually bash his skull in.  He tried calling his name out a few more times but Bucky’s eyes were so wild, so panicked and lost in a swarm of memories that Steve couldn’t reach him.

“Soldier!” Steve said in his most commanding voice.  It wasn’t hard to copy the drill sergeants in movies, even easier when real men have snapped back to training days in his presence.  Steve was small, but his voice was deep and resonated well. 

He was slow to react, but Bucky straightened up.  When he looked over, Bucky’s eyes were cloudy and dull.  Steve’s gut wrenched.  The mere act of treating him as a solider knocked him into a world worse than the memories.  The things he had done in the past were now things he would do again and Steve’s heart broke.

“Sit down.”

Bucky sat.

Steve blinked away a wash of emotion.  He felt torn up that he was doing what undoubtedly Hydra did: took away Bucky’s agency.  Steve carefully stepped forward and kneeled in front of Bucky.  The soldier’s eyes tracked him but he didn’t react. 

“It’s okay,” Steve whispered, placing a hand on Bucky’s knee.  “Your name is Bucky Barnes.  You’re in New York City, in my apartment.  I’m Steve Rogers.  I won’t let anything happen to you.  You’re safe.”

Bucky stared at him blankly and Steve wished he knew what to do.  None of his training could have possibly prepared him for someone this long brainwashed.  He wondered if there was any protocol in existence to deal with someone like the Winter Soldier. 

Steve reached up and cupped Bucky’s cheek.  He ran a thumb over the growing stubble.  “Hey,” he whispered.  “Hey, look at me.”

Bucky locked eyes with Steve.  Between the two of them, Steve was like a twig that could be easily snapped in half, but in this moment, he was the one holding glass.  One wrong move and Steve could break this man.

“Do you know who I am?”

Bucky blinked.  “You stated yourself as Steve Rogers.”

Steve nodded.  “Yeah.  Yes.  But, do you _know_ who I am?  Really look at me.  Think.  We were talking just a few minutes ago.”

“You were,” Bucky frowned.  “Joe?”

Steve smiled in relief, dropping his hand.  “Yeah!  Yeah.  Joe.  Joe, my grandfather.  Your friend.”

Bucky looked around the apartment as if just seeing the place for the first time.  “What year is it?”

“2014,” Steve said. 

Bucky let out a dry laugh.  “I think there’s about seventy years of my life unaccounted for.”  He ran a hand over his eyes.  They were no longer dull and distant, but there was still something dead about them.  “I should go.”

“Don’t,” Steve pleaded, a bit surprised by how quickly he said it.  “Listen, you’re clearly not okay.  I’m not going to pretend I know how to help, but I’m at the very least someone who can give you a place to gather yourself.”

Bucky shook his head.  “And how am I supposed to trust you?”

Steve shrugged and stood up.  “You came back, didn’t you?” He walked back to the front door and picked up the items he dropped, loosely organizing the papers as he headed to his desk.  “Just… No more stealing clothes off the line, a place to sleep, food.  If I could help every homeless I came across I would, but I can’t.  You, though.  You’re a vet.  It’s my job to help vets.  I can’t take you into the V.A. because you’re America’s Most Wanted,” Steve laughed at the absurdity.  “But I believe in things happening for a reason.”

He looked back at Bucky who was still sitting, watching Steve like a hawk.  Steve swallowed nervously.  “You found me.  A little piece of your past all the way in 2014.  So, stay here.  Just for a little while.  Until your flashes are less extreme and you get more of your memories back.”

“And what am I supposed to do?  Sit in your apartment all day?”

Steve looked at his art table and the cork board he had against the wall full of commission invoices and rough sketches.  “You can be my assistant,” he thought up on the spot.  “It’ll pay for room and board.  Can help me with an art project I’ve been neglecting.”

Bucky scoffed.  “And you think I’m an artist now?”

Steve shook his head.  “I give group and private lessons as my main job, but it doesn’t pay a whole heck of a lot.  I take commissions where I can.  But I got this installation piece for a hipster café over in Red Hook.  They don’t even care what it looks like, just lots of shapes painted for them to make a wall with.  I think you can handle painting a few squares, yeah?”

It was true, after all.  It was such a boring, easy assignment he couldn’t believe they were actually paying an artist to do it.  He had more complicated commissions he was working on that he kept putting off painting the stupid planks he picked up.  But he could watch Bucky paint.  It was pretty clear that he was unstable, but how people handle art mediums was always pretty telling.  Steve could monitor him better using the field of psychology he was actually licensed in. 

He felt a little guilty for coming up with such a strategy.  But Bucky wasn’t a dog, he wouldn’t force him to do anything he didn’t want.

“Oh, fuck,” Steve hissed, scrambling to find his keys.  “I have to go walk my landlord’s dog and get him dinner.  I’ll be back in a bit.  But, I mean, it’s up to you.  Stay or go.  But I hope you stay because…” _because I want to help, because you need a friend, because you’re beautiful and I’m a selfish creep, because if you go out there now you could be caught and killed for treason even though it’s not your fault, because –_ “I think after everything you’ve been through, you could use a break from it.  Feel free to raid the kitchen.”

Steve was almost out the door when Bucky spoke up.  

“You’re afraid of me.”

Steve froze, hand on the door handle and heart in his throat.  He thought back to Eli and Steve’s principle on telling the truth.  He turned to see Bucky standing in almost the exact same spot when Steve had walked in. 

“There’s always a chance for you to lose yourself like you just did, and I would have no way to protect myself if you came after me.  Yeah, that’s kinda scary.” 

“Then why would you let me stay here?”

Steve thought again of all the reasons he had asked Bucky to stay and all the reasons it was probably the stupidest thing he had ever done, which was saying something.  “The way you talked to me when you thought I was Joe.”  Steve nodded.  He couldn’t let this man get by alone when he had tried so hard to save the missing 107th.  “I think, even now, you’re not the person Hydra tried to make you.”  He nodded to himself again.  It was the truth.  It was everything.  “The choice is yours, but I hope you’re still here when I get back.”

He slipped through the door and shut it behind him.  His heart was racing and he was holding his keys too tightly.  It wasn’t until he was unlocking Clint’s basement apartment that he allowed himself to mutter the string of curse words building up over how absolutely insane this was. 

Steven Grant Rogers: ninety-five pounds, five-foot-four, can’t take the stairs too quickly for fear of a fucking stroke, just invited an assassin to live with him. 

So much worse than punching his first boss for being inappropriate with a female coworker.  Steve only got fired for that one.

X

When Steve stumbled into Clint’s apartment, he was immediately tackled to the ground by Lucky who barked a few times before licking Steve’s face over and over.  Steve tried his best to push Lucky off, but the dog was unrelenting, even as Steve started to sneeze.

“Woah there, Pizza Dog,” a girl’s amused voice called out before Lucky was pulled off him.  A stern looking teenager with raven black hair and a dark sort of smirk on her face gave Steve a once over.  “Who the hell are you?”

Steve frowned as he got to his feet.  “I should be asking you the same thing.” 

Lucky liked her, but Lucky liked anyone who gave him food, so that wasn’t much of a judgement call.  She rolled her eyes and flipped her hair over her shoulder.  Then she settled Steve with a look so sharp he knew she wouldn’t say a word about herself until Steve gave up info first.  The girl was all of fifteen but Steve fully believed she would be able to beat him in a fight.  America would like her.

“I’m Steve, Steve Rogers.  I live on the top floor.  Clint had asked me to take care of Lucky until he gets back.”

The girl looked skyward that Steve believed was more likely directed toward Clint than him.  “I’m Kate Bishop, Clint’s niece,” she sighed.  “He asked me to come take Lucky home because he’ll be stuck in D.C. for at least another week.”

“A week?  He was supposed to be discharged from the hospital today.”

Kate waved his worry off.  “He’s fine.  That man has broken every bone in his body, I swear to god.  He’ll be fine.  He’s staying because of a trial?  It was unclear.  That red head friend of his dumped a whole bunch of government secrets onto the internet or something.  Blah-blah-blah, he’ll be fine.” 

Steve frowned and sneezed.  He was worried about Clint.  There was also a possibility that Sam got dragged into whatever trial thing is going on.  He would need to contact them both.  But as Steve rubbed at his sore nose and blinked back the pet dander that was making his eyes itch, he was thankful Clint sent someone else to take care of Lucky at the very least. 

“I guess there’s no real reason a teenage girl would break into this building just to steal a one-eyed dog,” Steve mused. 

Kate let out a sharp bark of laughter.  “You know, I bet someone would if enough people figured out Clint’s a Hawkeye.”

“ _A_ Hakweye?” Steve repeated.

Kate winked and opened up the big tote bag she had with her, throwing some of Lucky’s toys inside.  “Can you help me find his food?  I’m almost afraid to look through Clint’s kitchen.”

Ten minutes later Kate was all packed up.  They had talked about Steve’s job and where Kate went to school.  They didn’t touch on what it meant that Clint was on trial in D.C. or what she insinuated about there being more than one Hawkeye.  She was smart and had an ego filled to bursting like most carefree teenagers.  When Kate hooked Lucky’s leash on and hefted up the tote over her shoulder, they said goodbye.  She put on her purple tinted sunglasses and looked like a movie star incongruently leaving the rundown apartment building. 

Steve watched her climb into an uber before pulling out his phone and calling Sam.  It went to voice mail, so he texted instead.  _Heard about the trial.  Are you being charged with anything?  How’s Clint?_

Then he texted Clint a similar message but didn’t expect to get a response.

Steve’s life had a certain rhythm to it.  It wasn’t monotonous; each client came with their own unique challenges.  But he was used to a certain amount of stress, a certain number of hills to climb, a certain cycle of hard work and rest with a few tough times and exciting engagements thrown into the mix.

This was so much more than Steve thought he could handle.  It was like running the same path in Central Park every day and then all of a sudden being asked to navigate the Appalachian trail. 

Steve hustled up the stairs to his apartment.  It hadn’t been that long since he left Bucky alone, but Steve suspected that man could disappear right before his eyes if he wanted to.  And yet, when Steve turned the knob and opened his door, he was greeted with the same vision as earlier.  Bucky stood there, looking out the window. 

“You’re still here,” Steve grinned.  He couldn’t help the uptick in his heart or the way his palms started to sweat.  He was nervous, afraid, and worst of all when Bucky turned and the afternoon light hit his face Steve knew he was going to fly too close to the sun. 

Steve’s fingers itched to draw his face, an Adonis bearing the eyes of a catastrophe.  Every moment of his body told a story.  Bucky frowned, a soft, muted expression.  “You’re Steve,” Bucky said.

Steve nodded.  “Yeah.  Yeah, I’m Steve.”

Bucky nodded his head once, perfunctory and curt.  When he stayed silent, Steve headed to the kitchen and pulled off one of the take-out menus stuck to the fridge.  “Are you hungry?  I can order Chinese.  What do you like?”

He looked up to see Bucky giving him the most perplexed gaze.  Steve waited patiently for a response. 

“I don’t know,” Bucky finally said.

Steve smiled, a little wanly as he considered all the possible reasons Bucky didn’t have favorites.  “I’ll get some variety then.”  Bucky could probably do with polishing off more than one meal.  Who knew the last time he ate something proper. 

This was a lot, maybe too much.  Still, something about Bucky made Steve want to keep him around.  From the moment they met, Steve had been trying so hard to reach out a hand in the hopes that Bucky would take it.  He wasn’t going to drop him now.


	3. Chapter 3

Steve looked over to where Bucky had taken up space on the floor and was diligently painting his first plank: a simple 4x4 square.  Bucky still didn’t quite understand how this was proper payment for a place to sleep and then all the clothes Steve had picked up from Good Will that day, but he was willing to do it if that was Steve’s request.  The square had turned into a black mess.  Thick strokes smeared the whole square, a single red circle peeking through.

“Looks good,” Steve said with a smile, still assessing the kind of work Bucky was doing with his therapist brain.  It was messy and dark.  Some of the strokes were smeared by fingertips where Bucky carelessly held the panel. 

Bucky looked up at Steve and then over to the large canvas he had been working on.  “It looks like I’m clearly not an artist.”

Steve laughed.  “I can teach you how to do that, if you want,” he said, nodding to the commission he was doing.  It was landscape of the city some big wig wanted for their office.  “Cities are nothing but perspective lines and picking where the sun hits.”

Bucky looked down at his black square.  “You’re busy,” he murmured, picking up the paintbrush again and covering up more of the red until it was almost impossible to see. 

Steve hummed.  It was his day off from the VA and he had three big commissions due soon, not including the one he delegated to Bucky.  “I can find the time, if you’re interested.  Or you can look over my sketch book, try and replicate if you want.”

Bucky stayed silent so Steve didn’t push. 

They worked in silence for a while until could feel his mind slipping focus too often, bouncing between his canvas and Bucky and drifting off to nothing.  “I’m going to put on some music,” Steve said, hopping off his stool to search for his speakers.  “You have any preference?”

Bucky hadn’t responded by the time Steve found his speakers and turned on the Bluetooth.  When he glanced over, Bucky’s hands were still and eyes distant.  “I don’t remember,” he said softly.

“Remember what?”

“What I listened to,” Bucky said.  “I remember…” the grip of his paintbrush tightened and Steve wondered if Bucky could actually snap that in half in his flesh and blood hand if he held it too hard.  Bucky blinked a few times and stared down at the black mess he had painted.  He pushed the square away from himself and pulled another one forward, attacking it with whatever paint had been left on the brush until he was just scrapping the bristles across the drying board. 

“How about something new, then,” Steve suggested, pulling up an indie folk station that would be a nice soothing background noise. 

He forwent his own project to keep an eye on Bucky, joining him on the floor. 

When Bucky looked up in question Steve opened his sketchbook.  “Sometimes I need a break from detail work,” Steve said with a shrug.  “Is it okay if I sketch while you work?”

Bucky didn’t say anything, only went back to painting.  Steve took the opportunity to draw a quick impression of Bucky’s form before flipping the page and doing something less creepy.  Bucky wasn’t here to be his model, Steve reminded himself.  He drew other things: Sam in flight, Clint and Nat at the hospital, all simple, sloppy lines.  It was enough to keep his hands occupied as he watched Bucky.

Slowly Bucky’s shoulders started to relax as he added dashes of dark blues and greys and even some white to the new panel.  His brush strokes slowed down and became more precise, although they were still thick and fairly erratic.  It looked like mountains.  Maybe at night, during a snow storm.  It looked like somewhere Steve never wanted to be.

Enough time passed that Steve went to the kitchen and threw together some lunches.  Steve had issues putting on weight.  He often drank an Ensure a day as part of an afternoon snack because it was too easy for him to slip underweight despite the diet his doctors put him on.  When he was underweight Steve was also at higher risk for other parts of his body to just stop functioning properly. 

Meanwhile, Bucky had accidentally fasted for three whole days while making the trip from D.C. to New York and before agreeing to let Steve help him.  Then, when Steve had gotten Bucky dinner the day before, he didn’t just eat like a starving man.  It reminded Steve of how teenage boys eat, with bottomless stomachs begging for more food for their endless growth spurts.  Bucky Barnes was, if everything was to be believed, almost a hundred years old.  Clean and rested, he looked no older than Steve.  Whatever they had done to him, it probably affected his metabolism.  So, Steve figured his protein packed diet would probably be helpful for someone like Bucky and not “too much weird science health nut food” as Sam described it. 

Bucky wandered into the kitchen before Steve had finished plating everything.  Steve tried not to feel self-conscious as he worked, knowing Bucky watched as Steve had to use a step stool to reach the top shelf of his cupboards.  When he was done fixing everything, Steve set the plates down the on table and smiled up at Bucky with a gesture for him to sit.   Bucky stayed at the wide doorframe that separated the kitchen and the living room. 

“I could hurt you,” Bucky said, voice heavy with tension and eyes swimming with memories.  “This isn’t some game.  I’m not some friend you’re letting stay with you until he gets back on his feet.  I could really, seriously hurt you.  You could die.”

Steve nodded.  “I could die at any time, with or without you.”

The look on Bucky’s face was one of abject disbelief.  “This isn’t some philosophical anyone can die at any time bullshit, Steve.” 

A shiver ran down Steve’s spine the way Bucky said his name, but Steve kept his face relaxed as possible.  He calmly picked up his knife and fork and began cutting up the chicken he had served himself.  “When I was eight I was in the hospital having my third heart surgery,” he told Bucky, not looking up.  “The first two happened when I was just born.  My parents couldn’t take me home for a long time.  It’s pretty strong right now, but there’s always a chance it could go out on me again.  My blood pressure is always really high.  Makes it difficult to work out without fainting.  I’m allergic to peanuts.  Deathly allergic.  I almost died in high school because someone brought in cookies and told me they were safe.  Apparently, they didn’t realize peanut butter was in fact part of the peanut allergy.  Had to be rushed to the hospital.”

The chicken on his plate was in such small bites there was nothing left to cut.  Steve lowered his hands and let the utensils sit against the plate.

“I have asthma.  It’s really bad.  I don’t even need to be doing much of anything to suddenly not be able to breath.  If I don’t have my inhaler on me for whatever reason I could just suffocate.  No cause.” 

He dared to look Bucky in the eye, putting forth more confidence than he really felt.  “I’ve always been at risk of doing too much and hurting myself and dying.  And yet I still picked fights with every bully in school or at a bar or the movies because despite the fact I’ll definitely get the crap kicked out of me, I’m not going to limit myself by the body the world gave me.  I’m a professional artist, Bucky, and do you want to know the funniest thing about that?”

He waited to see if Bucky would say anything, but the man stayed silent, staring at Steve with an unreadable expression.

“I’m colorblind.”

Out of everything, _that_ got a reaction out of Bucky.  His brow scrunched so tight you could stick a nickel between his eyes and it would stay.  “You can’t see… color?”

“I mostly paint in sepia tones or monochrome because I have a hard time with yellows and greens.  They look red.  And can’t really tell blues and purples apart unless they’re super bright pigments.”

Bucky looked over his shoulder to the city scape that was half finished in the living room. 

“I’m not afraid of the risk,” Steve said.  “I’ve had things in place in case I die suddenly since I was fifteen.  You trying to figure out your own life isn’t going to stop me from living mine.  And right now, what I want to do, how I continue to be myself and live my life, is to have you here with me.  I can’t leave someone behind.  It’s not in my nature.”

Bucky looked down at the plate Steve had fixed for him.  For few moments, the air felt like lead and the blood in Steve’s ears sounded like a marching band.  Then Bucky stepped forward and pulled the chair out and sat down.  He picked up his knife and fork carefully, metallic hand whirring a little with its fine motor control.  Steve speared a chunk of chicken and began eating.  There wasn’t anything left to discuss, he hoped.  Bucky wouldn’t be able to find a reason in the world that Steve would give up on this. 

X

Steve woke up in the middle of the night with a jolt - that sudden rush of anxiety that _something is wrong_ , a lot like that one nun in _Madeline_.  He rubbed at his eyes and headed for the living room.  The only light in his apartment came from the half-moon spilling in through the windows, but it was easy to tell that Bucky wasn’t on the couch where he had left him.

Steve checked the kitchen, and then the fire escape.  The window had been jimmied open a little and Steve slipped outside.  Bucky was there, balanced on the railing like it was a proper seat and not some inch-wide strip of metal.  There was no screaming, or crying, or visible sign of distress, but that didn’t mean something wasn’t as wrong as Steve’s gut felt.

“Hey,” Steve whispered, coming over to stand next to him.  “What are you doing up?”

“I don’t sleep much.”

“Nightmares?”

Bucky shrugged, an affirmation he wasn’t going to elaborate on.  “I don’t think I need to, much,” Bucky admitted. 

Steve hummed.  It made as much sense as anything.  A perfect soldier would never need to rest. 

“I think, there was a mission.  Five days.  I didn’t sleep for five days.”

Steve’s breath caught in his throat.  He tried to remember how long a human could go without sleep before dying.

“Warm milk helps, sometimes, if you wanted to try to sleep again,” Steve offered after a few moments.

Bucky shook his head, wisps of his hair falling over his eyes.  They stayed like that for a few more moments, neither willing or able to break the silence.  Steve shivered against the night air and Bucky looked at him for the first time since Steve had joined him outside.  His eyes catalogued Steve’s body, his ratty undershirt and the boxer briefs that had a star pattern across them.  It wasn’t sexual or lingering.  Bucky took in data about Steve, looking him over like assessing a target.  Steve shivered again and Bucky’s eyes snapped up to meet his.

“You’re cold.”

Steve shrugged.  “It’s a little chilly, but kind of nice.” 

“I don’t like the cold,” Bucky said.

“You’ll hate it here when winter comes around,” Steve said.  “The buildings create wind tunnels that make the air ten times colder than it should be.”  Sometimes Steve would duck into a McDonalds or Starbucks just to grab a hot drink and warm up a bit on his commute because it’s so cold his teeth won’t stop clattering together. 

“They froze me.”

“What?” Steve reeled, pulling back from the railing to get a better look at Bucky.

Bucky looked back out to the city.  “I don’t know how much time I’m missing because they froze me.  Then they’d wake me up when they wanted to use me.”

Steve felt like he was going to puke.  It would explain how he had been alive since World War II, but that kind of technology had to be raw, and they’d been doing it to Bucky for decades.  It was amazing he was as put together as he seemed now. 

There was another beat or two where Steve couldn’t think of anything to say.  Bucky swung himself back onto the fire escape like the one-inch rail was a pummel horse.  He didn’t say anything as he passed Steve to get back inside.  Steve let out a shaky breath before following.

“You can watch TV if you want,” Steve said, showing him the remote.  “I won’t even hear it if you keep the volume under ten.”

Bucky didn’t move to turn on the TV.  Steve himself was pretty wired after waking up so suddenly and attempting to wrap his head around the fact that Bucky had been literally frozen to extend his life.  He picked up the remote and pulled up Hulu, clicking on Kid’s Shows because they probably didn’t need anything that took too much brain power to follow or potentially triggered Bucky. 

They settled down and watched _Foster’s Home_ because it was the only show not about fighting the forces of evil and going on dangerous adventures he could find.  They stayed on the couch until the sun started to peak over the horizon and Steve couldn’t keep his eyes open anymore.  When Steve woke up again a few hours later, there was a blanket draped over him and the scent of bacon wafting in from the kitchen.   

X

Steve came home from the V.A. to see Bucky very, _very_ carefully painting one of the planks.  Some of Steve’s sketchbooks were laid out around him and some loose paper with rough perspective sketches Steve hadn’t draw were scattered on the ground. 

“What’s this?” Steve asked, coming around to see what Bucky was painting now.  In the last few days he had come up with: more black, possibly blood splatters, something Bucky called shrinking clouds, and something that looked like the light they put above your head at the dentist office.  They were all smears of colors and suggested lines.  Angry strokes and flashes of memory.

This was drastically different, like something that had been stewing inside Bucky for so long he had to make it perfect.

There was a window, a view from outside, light coming through the drapes from a nearby lamp.  It was oddly still and clinical despite the warm colors beyond the glass pane.  The attention to detail slipped away around the edges, and the angle was from above, like you were watching from the building across the street, a few floors up. 

It wasn’t the technically best painting, the control of the brush and colors clearly amateur, but that didn’t matter when it can still evoke something so powerful.  This was the view of a sniper’s riffle.

Steve had a telescope as a kid.  It wasn’t very powerful, made for kids who would likely break it, but Steve loved that thing.  He’d pretend he was a submarine, although he never got his makeshift attachments to reflect at the right angle.  He’d use it to track the pigeons some old guy kept on the roof a couple buildings over.  He’d try to find the stars at night despite the overabundance of light pollution you couldn’t escape in the city.  There was something specific about looking through a singular circular lens that Bucky captured here. 

“I don’t know who they were,” Bucky said, barely a whisper, as he set down his brush. 

Steve thought back to some of his patients who had killed civilians, innocent people, on accident or because of orders.  Even the ones who saw too many dead of enemy combatants, frozen by what they had done to someone who they saw themselves in: just another kid scared out of his pants.  Killing changed a person, no matter the killer, no matter the victim.  It was a moral injury, as they called it.  It was, most probably, the most difficult kind to heal.  Nothing Steve could say right now would make much of a difference.  He could only help Bucky adjust and perhaps, later, forgive himself for everything he had done in combat before and after he had been captured.

“Do you want to come to the V.A. tomorrow?” Steve asked, squaring his shoulders.  It was risky, taking Bucky out, but the government had no leads as to where a ghost would hunker down.  There was no reason to suspect they knew he was even in the state.  Moreover, in modern dress and the way Bucky had started tying his hair back (Steve had picked up a pack of hair ties when he saw the rubber band), Bucky passed for any hipster in Brooklyn.  He was already so different from the soldier who had held him up in the alley. 

Bucky had told him he was a trained spy before he was a trained assassin.  “They called me the American because how well I could blend in.  Sneak into events before completing what needed to be done there.  Never occurred to me at the time it was because I was actually American.”  It meant that he could blend so well, Bucky could probably stare a security camera in the face at Stark Tower and still not be recognized without his tactical gear and grease paint. 

“Why?” Bucky asked.

“Getting out of the apartment might be good,” Steve suggested.  “Vets talk at group.  Your experiences are unique, but you still might find more in common with them than you realize.  Everyone coming out of war is facing demons they can’t put names to.”

Bucky looked at his painting, the window that had no doubt been plaguing him for a while now.  He shrugged.  It was good enough for now. 

“Have you eaten yet?” Steve asked, heading for the kitchen.  “I was thinking of making Mexican.”

“Never had it,” Bucky said.

“Okay, well, don’t think this is what it’s supposed to taste like then.  The closest I’ve been to Mexico is Virginia and everything in New York is a fusion restaurant.”

Bucky chuckled and something warm spilled low in Steve’s gut.  He forced himself to not turn around and stare.  Bucky didn’t need that kind of pressure on expressing himself.  When Steve finally did turn around (ground beef, onion, and bell pepper at hand) he caught Bucky staring at him with a look a little softer than his usual careful blankness.  The warmth in his belly swooped and Steve turned quickly to start dinner. 

“I should leave,” Bucky said. 

Steve nearly cut his hand where it slipped against the pepper.  He couldn’t resist the urge to face Bucky this time.  “What?”

Bucky’s face was still a step removed from calculated blankness, but it was sadder than before.  “I’ve done a lot of bad things, Steve.  You’re a good person.”

Steve had to wonder what kind of magic surrounded his kitchen that Bucky always felt the need to really speak when Steve was making food.  “You were brainwashed, Buck.  You were captured, and tortured, and made to do things against your will.  You’ve done bad things but not because you’re a bad person.”

“You don’t know that,” Bucky said.

“I do.  Want to know how?”  Bucky stayed silent, Steve’s cue to go on.  “Because you’re trying to save me from yourself right now.  A bad guy wouldn’t care who he drags down with him.  Most would revel in it.”

Bucky frowned, trying to assess what Steve said. 

“You can’t save me by keeping away the same way you can’t corrupt me by staying,” Steve pressed, turning back to the task at hand with a speeding heart and a frog in his throat.  “If you want to leave because _you_ need a new environment or because _you_ want to find your own place because _you_ feel mentally stable enough to or because _you_ need to for no other reason than _you do_ then that’s fine.”  Steve took a deep breath and stared at the half-cut vegetables.  “But don’t leave because you think it’s what’s best for me.  I asked you to stay here.  I knew all the risks.  I have a solid grasp on what your history is even if I don’t know all the details.  And I’ve been serious each time I tell you that it’s okay.  You can stay here, as long as you need to.”  Steve turned back to face Bucky.  “As long as _you need to_.  As long as you want to.  Now don’t make me say it again.”

“If they find me, you’ll be arrested,” Bucky said.

Steve rolled his eyes.  “Wouldn’t be the first time,” he muttered. 

Bucky scoffed.  “What did you get arrested for?  Civil disobedience?  Far cry from harboring a fugitive.”

Steve sighed and scraped the peppers into the sauce pan before dicing the onion.  “Grand theft auto,” Steve admitted.  “Twice.  Also some illegal street art, so… vandalism.  And yes, a couple of disturbance charges for civil disobedience thrown into the mix.  Okay?  I’m not perfect.  I’m not _good_.  I’m just human.”

Bucky entered the kitchen fully and took a seat at the table.  He stretched out his metal arm, twisting it and bending his fingers a few times.  It was a little test he did from time to time to make sure there wasn’t any circuit or gear damage.  He did it for distraction as much for maintenance check.  “You are good though,” Bucky said.  “You’re the most good man I’ve ever known.”

Steve frowned at where he started to brown the vegetables.  He didn’t want to tell Bucky that the man had probably just forgotten.  There was a whole life before the war he lived through.  He knew good people.  It was impossible that Steve was the first he knew, that could be the only way for him to be described as the best. 

“I’m selfish,” Steve said, looking at Bucky out the corner of his eye.  “I’m selfish and too proud and stubborn and you’re comparing me to a world of secret keepers and dark deeds.”

“You’re colorblind,” Bucky said. 

Steve frowned.  They had gone over this already and it was a strange jump in conversation.  Bucky didn’t care to elaborate.  He finished going through the system check on his arm and looked up at Steve.  “I _should_ leave,” Bucky said.  “But maybe I’m selfish, too.”

Steve felt his face burn.  He was glad the steam of the vegetables was enough to mask its origin.  “Good,” Steve said with bravado.  “You deserve to be selfish after everything.”

X

Bucky did come with Steve to the V.A. the next day.  Steve almost had a heart attack when he stepped out of his bedroom to find a full arm on his coffee table.  Bucky was flushed white, like removing the metal monstrosity was as painful as losing his real arm.  Steve considered how acute Bucky’s touch sensitivity and motor controls were and realized it was very possible that it _had_ hurt. 

“What’s this?” Steve asked, a little strangled.

Bucky shrugged, the motion somehow imbalanced with just a stump at one end.  “Metal arm is a bit conspicuous.”

“We could have hid it,” Steve groused. 

Bucky shrugged again.  “It was starting to malfunction anyway.  And I can always hook it back on.”

Steve wondered if that was true or not, but decided not to press.  If Bucky didn’t want that arm on him anymore, Steve wasn’t going to fight it.  Steve helped Bucky pin his shirt sleeve up and get his hair into the preferred knot at the back of his head.   

“You ready?” Steve asked when they were both all put together.

Bucky merely looked towards the door and waited for Steve to lead the way.  The trek through the city passed as usual for Steve, only with someone at his side.  Bucky often brushed close, keeping a point of contact between them.  Steve didn’t know if that was to seek comfort or if it was some kind of tactical move.  He didn’t question it. 

Bucky’s eyes were always casing the environment, seeking out potential threats, escape routes, cameras.  It was fascinating to witness, how subtly Bucky could flick his eyes and know where to turn his head.  Steve only noticed because he had so much experience around vets who were snipers and special ops.  Hell, even Sam did it.  But Bucky’s movements were so smooth and precise, he wasn’t sure anyone could match.

Steve kept up a stream of chatter, explaining what their day would look like, who was running group talk, what other members were likely to be there, the class Steve taught after lunch.  He didn’t have any private sessions today, so they could come straight home after if Bucky needed to. 

The V.A. was mostly empty by the time they reached it.  There were always workers and veterans, but the group talk room hadn’t been set up yet. 

Carol was rolling chairs in from the storage room.  The room they used for group was converted into a dinning hall in the evenings for the vets that needed a free meal, so none of the furniture was permanent. 

“Hey Carol,” Steve greeted.  “I brought a friend with me today.”  He jerked his head to Bucky who seemed to tense at the new attention by Carol.  “I promised he wouldn’t have to talk.  I just wanted him to get out and maybe find some people to relate to.”

Carol grinned after giving Bucky a once over.  “Yeah, no problem.  Colonel Carol Danvers.  And you are?”  She held out a hand to Bucky who glared at the offer.  Carol laughed.  “Sure.  I get it.  Just don’t disrupt when others are talking or I’ll needle you into opening up, kay?”

Bucky nodded and looked away.  Steve sighed.  He had clammed up the moment they stepped outside of the apartment, but it was to be expected.  “Wanna help set up chairs?” Steve asked, “Or are you just going to stare out the window until we get started?”

Bucky huffed and went to the stack of chairs and lifted the top one and set it onto the ground.  Carol smirked and leaned her head closer to Steve.  “Taken a special interest in that one, I see.”

Steve coughed and fought down a blush.  “Shut up, it’s not like that.”

“Mmm hmmm, sure.”  Carol went back to setting up chairs and Steve had nothing to do but follow lead.

Later, after the chairs were in a circle and the snack table was set up and the other vets filed in, Steve had to admit to himself how true Carol’s words were.  Bucky was a special interest, and not just because of his unique circumstances.  Bucky was learning to love music and really liked spicy food.  He binge watched cartoons at night and Steve would find sketches of the _Powerpuff Girls_ on the living room floor in the morning.  Bucky had been writing down all his memories and was quick to pick up on technologies.  He was browsing the internet to fact check the things he remembered when he wasn’t painting.  And he took so much extra care with the work he was doing for Steve.  Last week Steve had taken a homeless man in because he was bleeding and confused and someone Steve alone might have been able to help.

Now Steve didn’t want to let him go because, throughout it all, Steve was selfish and Bucky was gorgeous and inexplicably kind for someone fighting against so many demons.  He had nightmares the few hours he slept, and sudden flashbacks would trigger outbursts of aggression.  But Bucky was kind.  Steve remembered the morning he woke up on the couch with a blanket over him and blushed harder.  He was right to take this chance.  Bucky was not what Hydra made him. 

Steve was also pretty sure that Bucky accidentally befriended America, which was a story he really needed to learn better.  Apparently, something about catching her sneaking out when he was sitting on the fire escape one night?  America had run into him on his way home from work the next day with a wicked smile asking about his new suitor.  Bucky had yet to offer up any of their conversation even when asked.

It still warmed Steve’s heart to know that Bucky was _capable_ of talking to someone else.  That America of all people liked him.  Even the fact that he was willing to keep secrets from Steve meant that Bucky hadn’t simply imprinted on the first person to be nice to him. 

Group was in full swing, going as usual with ups and downs, people unwilling to talk but clearly wanting to, people who can’t seem to hold it in anymore, people just too tired to not tell their story.  Carol asked Eli if he wanted to say anything and Steve was expecting the usual pass but today Eli cleared his throat and shrugged.

“Is that a yes?”

Eli scratched at his shoulder and winced.  “I don’t know why I ever thought joining the army was a good idea.  Like, it was a choice, right?  And I knew, at least, I think I know, the kind of shit they did to my grandpa.  Why would I ever want to follow in those footsteps?  My grandpa was disposable ‘cause he was black and they turned him into a science experiment and it near killed him. 

“I guess I wanted to be a real part of the thing my grandpa tried to be a part of.  But nah.  Now it doesn’t matter that I’m black.  We’re all disposable.  They don’t need to do crazy science experiments on us.  Every time they throw us into a war zone it’s like a game of dice for them.  They just wanna see if they can win.  But they got so much coin it doesn’t matter much if they lose a few.”  Eli’s voice caught on growing tears.  This had been building in the boy for too long.  “I watched my whole team blow up because we were the disposable front lines.  I was just the lucky bastard who was a few feet behind ‘cause I had stopped to take a piss.”

Eli wiped at his face and let out a harsh laugh.  “Everything was fucking platitudes with them.  They didn’t give a fuck that all their men died, that all my _friends_ died.  We were just tally numbers and paperwork they had to fill out.  And then they called me a hero because I watched it happen.   

“So now I’m back state side, my ma is pissed I never went to college when I could’ve, I don’t got a job so I started fighting at underground events.  Addicted to steroids.  And telling a group full of people with missing fucking limbs how terrible awful my life is when I’m at least still in-fucking-tact.  It doesn’t make any fucking sense.”

Carol talked them through survivor’s guilt, and what it was like for her to be whole, as Eli called it, when she left the air force.  Some of the more adjusted members of group told Eli that the reason any of them are here is because what they did doesn’t make any sense. 

Conversation continued to flow, going into other people’s problems, some talking about the people they killed, how difficult it was to face their families after everything they had done, how they didn’t feel like a real person anymore, didn’t know who they were before the war. 

Eli spoke up again when that came up.  “Yeah, that’s it.  I don’t remember who I used to be.  So, I don’t know how to move forward because it’s like all the building blocks of my past that made me who I am were just swept out from under me.  Jenga or some shit.”

When Carol called the end to group, Steve made sure to ask Eli if he was coming to art class after lunch.  He wouldn’t be surprised if Eli decided to just take off for the day.  Eli rubbed at his eyes and said he didn’t know.  It was the truth, which was all Steve could really ask for.   

Bucky was waiting patiently for him by the door when Steve was done.  “So?” Steve asked.  “What do you think?”

Bucky shrugged, an eye on the lingering vets.  “They don’t remember who they are and they _have_ all their memories,” Bucky said. 

Steve nodded.  “Yeah, it happens that way sometimes.  Everyone leaves a bit of themselves behind when they go to war.” 

Bucky stared off in a way Steve was beginning to become familiar with.  The man was so smart and the world, his life and history, other people, were just one big puzzle.  He was seeing how certain edges fit together right now, whether it be his memories or understanding of the modern world, Steve couldn’t know.  But Bucky was becoming something a bit less scattered every day.

Steve picked up a quick lunch for the two of them at the deli on the corner which they ate in Steve’s art room.  The paints here were cheaper, the kind of acrylics you bought by the gallon, and the images drying by the window were reminiscent of an elementary school art project.  Looking in, one wouldn’t expect the majority of the class to be battle hardened men. 

“Are you doing okay?” Steve asked when Bucky had been quite for almost too long.  “If this is too much we can–”

“No,” Bucky cut him off.  “This is your job, I won’t keep you from it.  I’m fine.”

Steve smiled softly.  He was fine, wasn’t he?  There hadn’t been a moment all day that Bucky had forgotten where he was or who he was.  He hadn’t slipped out of English in days, at least not on accident.  Bucky liked to curse in Russian and mutter about his cartoons in French. 

“Just making sure,” Steve said.  He started setting up for class, setting out papers and brushes and clay.  “Did you want to work on anything while I teach?” he offered.  “Just for fun.”

Bucky frowned and looked around the room and the art pieces other vets had been working on.  He flexed his hand a few times before responding, eyes fixed on one man’s sculpture that was waiting to be painted.  “You’ve been monitoring me this whole time,” he said, voice dull and distant in a way that made Steve’s heart break.

He couldn’t deny it.  It went against his policy.  “You already knew that, Buck.  You’re smart enough to have figured it out on day one.”  Steve sighed and leaned against one of the tables.  “But it’s not about making sure you perform a certain way.  This isn’t a test.  It’s about helping you to find yourself again.”

Bucky stayed silent, eyes off in the distance, puzzling more pieces together.

“You don’t have to do any more art,” Steve said, going back to finish the class set up.  “Sorry if it felt like I tricked you into something.”  He didn’t know what else to say, what was appropriate or mattered or could make a difference.  Steve worked with a lot of people, but all of them knew he was a therapist, even if his manner of approach was different than most.  He had never lied about his career to Bucky, but he hadn’t told him about it before offering the job of painting planks.

Then again, Bucky’s mind had been so in and out at the time, Steve didn’t know if he would have comprehended what art therapy even meant.  Still, Steve was sure Bucky understood the moment Steve disclosed his profession.  Even when Bucky didn’t remember who he was or _when_ he was, his brain processed things so quickly, so swiftly.  He understood the world around him better than anyone kept away from society for 70 years should. 

He seemed so vulnerable without the metal arm that screamed threat to the world.  And yet, there was almost something wilder about him now.  Tearing off the machinery of man brought Bucky back to earth.

Steve’s thoughts were getting away from him, as they often did when thinking about Bucky.

“You didn’t trick me,” Bucky said, voice firm and present. Steve looked up from where he was digging for markers that hadn’t been dried out yet.  Bucky looked at him, unblinking and certain.  “I’ve been monitoring you as well.”

Steve tilted his head to the side as if a new angle would reveal the thoughts behind Bucky’s words.  “Monitoring me for what?”  There were numerous answers: to see if Steve was Shield or Hydra or who he said he was.  It seemed more personal than that. 

“You’re smart enough to figure it out,” Bucky echoed. 

A tension filled the air that Steve couldn’t name that was broken almost immediately by the opening door.  It was almost time for class and vets were starting to trickle in.  As always, when it came to Bucky, Steve found himself distracted.  Bucky didn’t say a word for the whole hour, sitting across from Eli and practicing perspective lines.


	4. Chapter 4

Bucky never put his arm back on.  Steve wondered if severing the nerve connection was more permanent than Bucky led Steve to believe.  He did, however, pick up the paint brush again.  It seemed, despite the spoken confirmation of what the job assignment really was, Bucky was still determined to finish his task.

“Did I ever tell you why I became an art therapist?” Steve asked, trying to keep his eyes on his own painting, an obnoxious commission of Iron Man zooming around Stark tower.  Apparently, Clint had passed his name along to Pepper Potts.   It was a big payout, so Steve wasn’t complaining too much.

“Because you’re an artist with a compulsive need to fix people,” Bucky guessed.

Steve let out a bark of laughter.  “Well, I mean, they wouldn’t let me join the military.  Too sickly.  But I wanted to give back.  It’s why I volunteered at the V.A. and decided to study psychology in school.  But art therapy, specifically.  Any form of art therapy – music, drama, visual – it’s humanizing.  We crave art in our lives.  We need beauty and stories to keep us sane, no matter who we are.”

Bucky made a noncommittal hum, enough to let know Steve he was still listening. 

“I’ve been sick often enough, had enough tests done and medication given, that I get what it’s like to feel helpless and broken.  And therapy can help, talking to people and getting the right treatment can help, but I’ve found for myself and witnessed in others, that nothing feels quite as liberating as creating something.  This is mine.  This is me.”

Steve wet his brush before wiping it clean so he could select another color.  He looked at the painting and knew that even with something as gawdy as this, it was true.  There was a sense of pride and accomplishment to know it was _his_ work.

“And just because someone isn’t technically proficient or naturally talented, doesn’t mean they don’t have something they need to express.  Everyone has a story they need to tell.”  He finally looked behind him to see Bucky sitting on the floor where he had taken up shop.  Bucky’s eyes were fixed on his triangle plank, but his brush was still in his hand as if he hadn’t moved it for quite some time.  “I just wanted to help people express themselves.  That’s it.”

A few moments passed and Bucky started to move his brush again.  “You’re really good at spontaneous speeches, you know that?”

Steve went back to his painting with a smirk.  “I have a degree in psychology, so I’m really good at bullshit.”

Bucky chuckled and Steve’s heart skipped a beat.  “You should try being a farmer.  You have plenty of fertilizer.”

Steve started laughing, the kind that rattled his whole body.  “Yeah, right!  Imagine me on a farm.  A cow would run me over.”  He started wheezing having laughed so hard.  Steve absently reached for the inhaler he usually kept by his painting station, having to look over when he didn’t grab it right away.  He wheezed a few more times before he remembered he hadn’t taken it out of his bag from the day before since he had a second one in his bedroom. 

Suddenly, an inhaler was pressed into his hand and Steve automatically shook it and inhaled before realizing this was from his new pack.  He looked up to where Bucky stood next to him as his breathing eased.  Bucky must have been carrying this on himself.  Steve could only guess when Bucky started doing that.  He blushed deeply and ducked his head.  “Thanks.”

Steve thought back to Bucky’s declaration that he had been monitoring Steve, too.  Was he watching Steve’s health?  Taking care of Steve in subtle ways the same way Steve tried to take care of Bucky?  It was silly, almost juvenile to think that way.  Steve shouldn’t be putting the burden of his desires onto Bucky’s shoulders.  It would skew Steve’s ability to see Bucky for who he really was.  And Bucky, just as himself, was amazing. 

“Thanks,” Steve said again, peeking back up to where Bucky still hovered. 

Bucky nodded and went back to his own work.  The soft melodies of 40s jazz wafted around the apartment and Steve focused on his breath.

X

Steve looked over Bucky’s paintings and knew he couldn’t give them to some hipster café.  They weren’t all masterpieces.  Most of them had blotchy risen portions where paint dried in clumps before being painted over again and perspective ratios were unintentionally skewed, but there was so much soul in his geometric planks that it would feel out of place in the location the art had been designed for. 

These told a story.  This was Bucky’s past, his life, his demons.  Black mess and blood spatters.  A view from an operating table.  The feeling of free falling.  Views from a sniper rifle: empty rooms, a man’s back with a red dot to pierce his heart, a dead nazi surrounded by other men from the second World War.  Bucky had painted his nightmares.  A hydra, many legs and many heads, emerging from the ocean’s depths.  His metal hand settled around a throat at an angle Steve wondered if the flesh was supposed to be Bucky’s. 

They were almost abstract, almost childlike in how they were unrefined, but they were powerful.  

This was the soul of someone weighed down by the choices they didn’t know they made. 

He’s supposed to give the café their art in a couple of days so they can install before the grand opening.  Steve would think of something.

He went to go find Bucky, perched at his spot on the fire escape, to tell him Steve was selfish and wanted to keep his paintings for himself when a knock came at the door. 

Steve wasn’t expecting anybody and Bucky always asked before using Steve’s phone to order from Postmates.  He changed directions and peered through the peep hole only for his heartrate to sky rocket.

Clint knocked again, this time calling out.  “Stevie, buddy ole pal!  I’m home!  I know you’re in there!”

“Oh fuck,” Steve whispered.  He jogged backwards a few steps to see through the kitchen and to the fire escape where Bucky now stood watching Steve like a hawk.  “Hide,” he mouthed, holding a hand up as if it would prevent Bucky from taking any steps forward. 

Bucky’s eyes grew cold and he squared his shoulders, preparing for a fight.  Steve frantically motioned him backwards, panicking.  How could he be so stupid?

Steve went to the door and opened it, hoping Bucky wouldn’t follow into the living room.  “Clint!  Hey!”  His voice was strained but he didn’t know how to hide it.

Luckily, Clint didn’t notice, or at least didn’t think there was anything odd about it.  “Okay, so first, thanks for taking care of Lucky because I know you’re allergic or whatever.  It’s going to take me a bit to convince Kate to give him back, though.  Third, let me pay you.  Except, second, you still have my checkbook so if you could give that back I’ll write you a fat one.  Especially now that my account is unfrozen.  Shield going down was a bit of a financial hoopla.  Glad no one needed to fix a pipe while I was gone.”

“Checkbook!  Right.”  Steve nodded curtly and spun around to find where he had put the stuff Clint had given him.  “Did you just say hoopla?”

“Dude, I say weird shit sometimes.  Did you know I used to be a carnie?  Every once in a while I feel like I talk ring master and it gives me the skeevies.” 

Steve shook his head and tried to glance at Bucky without drawing notice.  The kitchen was empty, as was the fire escape.  “The more I learn about you the more confused I get.”

Clint laughed.  “Sam says hi, although I’m sure he’s called you by now.  We couldn’t use our phones during the trial and it sucked.  Although I’m pretty sure Nat has like wifi in her shoes or some spy shit.”

Steve chuckled nervously as he slipped into his bedroom and grabbed Clint’s checkbook off the desk.  “Okay, here you go.  Uh, don’t worry about writing that check now.  You don’t even have to pay me.  I didn’t do much.”

“Nonsense!” Clint cheered, snagging the checkbook and pulling a pen out of his back pocket.  He clicked it a few times and smiled. “It’s the least I could–” Clint’s words died on his lips, his entire demeanor shifting from loveable landlord to trained Shield agent in half a heartbeat.  Clint’s eyes zeroed into the darkness outside Steve’s kitchen window.

Steve breathed in and out, slow pulls of air to keep his lungs from restricting on themselves.  Clint pocketed his pen and checkbook, movements careful as his eyes saw more than what was there. 

There was a thud on the roof and without hesitation Clint was racing out the window.  “No!  Clint, wait!”  Steve yelled, chasing after him.  Clint didn’t have his bow on him.  He couldn’t do anything, right?  Steve climbed up the fire escape, pulling himself up onto the roof past where the rickety stairs led.  Bucky must have vaulted up easily.  Clint, too. 

Steve was out of breath and scrambling for the inhaler in his pocket by the time he got up, trying desperately to process the simple image of Clint alone on the roof, starring out towards the Manhattan Bridge.

Bucky got away.

Bucky was gone.

Clint turned on Steve in a rage.  “What the hell was that!”

“What was what?” Steve asked, trying to think of a lie, act as innocent as a Mr. Rogers should be.

“You’ve been harboring the world’s most wanted assassin.  The guy who tried to kill me and your friend Sam has been living with you?  How the hell did you get mixed up in this?”  Clint stood up straight, anger shifting to fear and worry so quick it made Steve’s head spin.  “Did he do anything to you?  Oh, fuck, Steve, you couldn’t even get a hold of me if you needed to and the Winter Soldier found you to get to me and–”

“What?  No!  Buck didn’t do anything.”

“Buck?” Clint asked, reeling back so fast Steve was afraid he’d fall over. 

“Buck.  Bucky.  His name is Bucky Barnes.  Okay?  I found him bleeding out behind the building.  I couldn’t just leave him like that!”

“He’s a murderer!”

“He’s a brainwashed P.O.W!” Steve yelled before taking another drag from his inhaler.  “His brain’s all scrambled.  You can’t.  You can’t go after him.  You can’t blame him for the things he’s done.  Clint, please,” Steve begged, tears threatening to spill and clouding his eyes. 

“I have to tell Nat,” Clint said.

“Clint!”

“I _have_ to.  Okay?  This isn’t some punk you caught spray painting and are trying to stick on the right path before he joins a gang.  This is a dangerous man.  And if he’s unstable like you say, who knows what could happen.  What could have already happened.”

“He’s getting better,” Steve insisted.  “He’s remembering who he actually is.  He’s trying so _hard_ to wrap his head around the stuff that happened to him.”

“Murderers can come to terms with their souls but that doesn’t forgive what happened,” Clint said, voice so hard and heavy that Steve was afraid to ask the story behind it. 

Steve swallowed back the tears and wiped at his eyes.  “You don’t know him.  You know the Winter Soldier.  But you don’t know _him_.”

“And you do?”

Steve wanted to say yes.  But really, only a few weeks together wasn’t enough to say you knew someone, especially not someone as complex and quiet as Bucky.  Yet Steve knew his humor, his intelligence, his determination and pride, his favorite breakfast foods and late night cartoons.

“You called him Bucky,” Clint said into the night air, almost swallowed by the loud ambience of Brooklyn after dark. 

“He calls himself Bucky.” 

“His name is James Buchannan Barnes,” Clint said.  “Nat did some digging into the files she made public so we could learn more about him.  She had a past with the Winter Soldier when she still worked for the KGB.”

“One of the first things he told me was his name, rank, and serial number.”

Clint’s frown worsened.  “Like a prisoner of war.”

Steve nodded.  “Like a prisoner of war.”

Clint cursed, rubbing at his eyes as if he could block out the whole situation.  He shook his head and took a deep breath.  “I still gotta tell Nat,” he said.  “You’re still a civilian and he’s still dangerous, doesn’t matter the report you built up.  But I’ll keep it close, okay?  There’s no Shield anymore so I’ve got no one to report to, technically.  We’ll handle this ourselves.  But is something that _needs to be handled_.  Do you get that?”

He sounded so desperate, so worried and sure of himself and so unlike Clint the landlord that Steve could only nod.  Yeah, he understood.  He didn’t like it, but he understood.

Clint sighed and walked past Steve, clapping him gently on the shoulder in passing.  He got to the edge of the building and sat down, swinging his legs over the fire escape below.  “Come on, let’s get you back into your apartment.  The door to the stairwell is locked.”

Clint hopped down and when Steve looked over he was holding his hands out, ready to catch Steve’s not even a hundred pounds of mass.

“Couldn’t you have just done this when you got trapped up here?” Steve asked, voice and mind and body oddly hollow as he made conversation on autopilot.

“I was naked, Steve.  It would have been harassment or something to jog by everyone’s kitchen windows holding my junk.  Better to yell for you to open the damn door.”

Clint helped Steve back into his apartment and guided him into a chair at the dining table.  It was obvious what set Clint off earlier.  Bucky’s metal arm was lying by the foot of Steve’s art table.

“I’m going to make some coffee and you’re going to tell me everything about how your dumbass bleeding heart ended up with the world’s deadliest assassin as a flat mate.”

Steve dropped his face into his hands.  “Fine,” he grumbled.  “But you have to tell me everything you know about the Winter Soldier.”

Clint groaned.  “Fine.”

X

Steve blinked as if it would do anything about the eyestrain.  He had spent another all-nighter at the computer, scouring the internet.  Clint had relayed what he knew of Natasha’s history with the sniper, during and after her stint in what he called the Red Room.  He talked about the file Nat had found which proved Bucky really was James Barnes, a soldier who went M.I.A. during World War II.

But the rest of it. 

During the fall of Shield, Natasha dumped all of their secrets onto the internet as a way to scrub out Hydra.  “It’s all online now,” Clint had said.  “Encrypted as shit, but if you find the right thread to pull, I’m sure it’s all there.”

Finding the right thread to pull was like detangling the sewing baskets of a thousand grandmothers. 

Steve had been scouring the internet for forums where people have decrypted files, searching for any clue to figure out where Bucky could have gone.  There were watch sites dedicated to the Winter Soldier but there was no way to tell what was real and what was some fanatic trying to sound cool.  Steve had hoped Bucky would come back, that Clint’s arrival hadn’t scared him away for good, but there’d been no movement on that front.

No matter how hard and how long he looked, nothing came up that he could use.  He had no resources besides his Mac and his shotty wifi connection.  The Avengers are scattered without Shield, and even if they weren’t, Clint’s mission to find Bucky still didn’t sound like a rescue one. 

A email pinged and Steve opened it, cursing when he realized he was supposed to have brought that hipster café their art yesterday.  He typed out a quick reply, apologizing and promising to get it to them by the end of the day. 

Steve rubbed at his eyes.  He needed to nap desperately before heading to the V.A. later and he didn’t even have anything to give the stupid hipster joint.  He wasn’t giving them Bucky’s art.  He _wasn’t_.  Steve let his head roll back, hanging off the couch, and stared at his art desk.  He had been doing a lot of commissions lately, a welcome surge even with Bucky staying with him, and he hadn’t gotten around to cleaning up anything.

There were a lot of scraps.  Color tests and rough sketches and the errant painting paper he used to scraped off excess paint from his brushes before dipping them in water to clean.  “Fuck it.”  Steve sprang to his feet with all the liveliness of a hungover frat boy going to an 8am class (Steve had been there, okay).  He picked up all his scraps and practice art and set them over Bucky’s planks.  He flipped them, traced, and cut to fit before pasting them onto proper artboards and doing the same thing again.

The hipster joint would get their geometric shapes with whatever-the-fuck on them and Steve would get to keep Bucky’s. 

Steve then promptly took a nap and didn’t wake up in time for work.  He had to call during group and apologize profusely that he wasn’t going to make it that day and to offer a make up tomorrow.  Whoever was manning the desk said it was “chill” and everyone needs a day off sometimes.  Steve took his art to the hipster place, and they loved it which sort of made Steve die inside.  He ignored it for the paycheck, really.

On his way back home he called Sam.  Steve was at his wits end.  He wasn’t sleeping right, he was missing work, he’d forgotten to eat the other day and almost passed out in the shower.  Sam knew what was going on.  After everything that went down in D.C., Clint was keeping him in the loop about stuff.  They had had a very long conversation then.

Sam didn’t believe that Bucky was the type of person you _could_ save.  He had detailed his time fighting the Winter Soldier.  Steve countered with his time painting with Bucky Barnes.  He was getting better, it was working.  “He was a prisoner of war for over seventy years, Sam,” Steve had persisted.  “He deserves at the very least a chance to heal.”

This time, they talk about Steve.  “You’re burning out, man.  You can’t keep this up.  I worry about your skinny butt.”

“Don’t talk about my butt,” Steve pouted.  “Gives a guy ideas.”

Sam laughed and Steve felt better knowing he could still lighten the mood.  “I’m serious, though, man.  You’re going crazy about something out of your control.  Learn all you want about who James Barnes was before Hydra got a hold of him, and scar yourself reading up on the atrocities he went through, but there’s nothing you can do about that _now_.”

Steve sighed.  Sam was right.  Bucky wasn’t here and there was no way for Steve to find a ghost who didn’t want to be found. 

“Take some time off from the V.A.  They’ll understand.  Do some art for yourself for once.”

Steve came to a halt outside of his building at the mouth of the alley he first met Bucky.  Steve’s message was still painted outside of Clint’s basement window.  Steve stared at the brick, bringing back memories of that first night he had helped Bucky. 

“Steve?”

He jumped a little at Sam’s voice.  “Yeah, yeah okay.”  He rubbed at his eyes.  He was still so tired and needed to go back to sleep.  It felt like giving up.  It felt like abandoning Bucky when he still needed a hand to reach out.  It felt awful, but Sam was right.  There was nothing he could actually do.

When Steve woke up from his second nap that day, he called the V.A. again and had them postpone his lessons for two weeks and see if anyone could supervise the group art class if people still wanted to come and work on their projects.

Then, Steve paints.

His fingers had been itching to draw all the sharp angles and strong curves of Bucky’s face for ages and it felt like sweet release to give in.  He paintes Bucky.  He paints the broken man who had been living with him: standing awkwardly in the kitchen saying he should go because he could hurt someone; watching cartoons with a bowl of Lucky Charms and his hair in a bun; pinning up his left sleeve because he didn’t want to put his prosthetic back on; sitting on the fire escape, dangerously close to standing on air.  He paints the smiling child Bucky had once been, clad in the army dress uniform he wore in the surviving photo of the army’s archives.  He paints who he imagined Bucky might have been, before the war, in the trenches, somewhere in between. 

Things go sideways when Pepper Potts herself shows up at Clint’s rundown apartment building, looking even more out of place than Kate had. 

“What’s the CEO of Stark Industries doing collecting a painting commission herself?” Steve asked, wiping stained hands on his too large shirt.  The painting she commissioned was all rolled and wrapped up and waiting nicely by the door so he didn’t stumble around too much before trying to hand it over.

“Natasha spoke highly of you,” Miss Potts said, stepping into the apartment with the grace of someone who found the best in everything.  “I wanted to meet the artist.”

“Natasha?” Steve asked.  He’d only met her the one time, and for not even ten minutes. 

“Yes, we’re good friends,” Miss Potts said as if that explained everything.  Her eyes, however, were fixed behind him.  When Steve turned to look, he already knew what had caught her eye, all the various forms of Bucky he had put to paper in the past week.  “Those are remarkable.”

“Uh, thanks.  He’s a, uh, a friend,” Steve stuttered. 

Her eyes narrowed.  “I know that face.”

Steve shifted his weight uncomfortably.  Pepper Potts wasn’t the type of woman to let anything slide, especially when her boyfriend was Iron Man.  She stayed on top of current events and had probably analyzed the footage from D.C. better than any super spy. 

“Yeah, probably,” Steve sighed, scratching paint chips off his nail beds. 

He could almost see the moment she figured it out.  “Oh my god,” she said, startled.  Then it was as if something else clicked in her head.  “Oh my god,” she repeated before muttering to herself, so softly Steve couldn’t pick it up.  He thought he caught Natasha’s name, but Steve couldn’t be sure.  Miss Potts was already on the phone and halfway out the door before Steve could say anything else.

She only turned around because she realized she was empty handed. Steve picked up the rolled canvas and handed it over and was completely taken aback when Miss Potts leaned down and kissed his cheek. 

“We’ll talk later,” she said before her attention was taken away by whoever was on the other line and Miss Potts marched towards the stairs as if she knew this building like the back of her hand.

Two days later he gets a call asking for his work on the Winter Soldier to be set up in a gallery at the Met.  Steve nearly hyperventilates.  When Miss Potts shows up again she explains that she had been helping Natasha track down the Winter Soldier, giving her access to Stark technologies to do so.  Seeing Steve’s paintings put Bucky in a new light, one that Miss Potts – please, call me Pepper – was ashamed for having missed before.

“I’m a firm believer that art helps shape and influence the world,” Pepper said.  “We forget that this man is human, even upon reading everything that happened to him.  We still see him as the experiment that Hydra saw him as because that’s the lens the files present us to him as.  But these,” she said, emphatically gesturing to his paintings, “these show us he’s a real person and not a scapegoat.”

“Not to sound rude, or anything,” Steve hedges, feeling like a stranger in his own home next to her, “but why do you care?”

Pepper’s radiance doesn’t falter, but her smile softened as she looked down at Steve.  “Natasha revealed some truths to me about her relationship with the Winter Soldier.  It’s not my story to tell, but Natasha believes that something of James Barnes is still there, has been resisting what Hydra has done to him all this time.”

Steve mulled over what Clint explained.  He didn’t know everything about what went on between Natasha and Bucky, but it was possible that Nat had also wanted Bucky to get a second chance.

“Your paintings,” Pepper continued, “can humanize James to the public.  Making sure Bucky gets _help_ instead of punishment can’t be done by convincing the government.  It’ll be done by convincing the public.”

Steve wasn’t convinced, but it felt like doing something.  Steve could never pass up an opportunity to _do_.

“Bucky.”

“Pardon?”

“You keep calling him James.  That’s his given name, but he goes by Bucky.  It’s the name he calls himself.  I think that’s important.”

Pepper smiled so sweetly that Steve knew he was making the right decision.

So, Steve let Miss Potts cart his paintings away to put them on display in a special exhibit at the Met.  He made sure she took Bucky’s paintings, too.  He’d write up a blurb for each of them, so people could understand Bucky’s mind from the perspective of an art therapist.  The way he used color and lines and how that changed as his mind stabilized.  But also, to explain the horrors that haunted Bucky, because he was, truly, haunted. 

“This is amazing, Steve,” Pepper had whispered. 

“This is Bucky,” Steve replied.

His apartment felt empty without his paintings.  They were just practice.  Scraps, like what he had given away to the hipster café and passed off as real art.   Just warm ups and color studies and sketches.  Nothing he had done so far captured Bucky, not really. But he felt a little alone without them. 

On his way home from the grocers a block over, Steve once again caught sight of the words he had painted for Bucky.  He looked down the alley and at the wall of brick.  It was dark and narrow.  The lighting was bad at all times of day and there were so many clothes lines that the windows would be a problem.

Steve walked around to the other side of the building where it hit an empty lot before the sidewalk and a busy street.  Yeah.  That was it.

All the canvases he had painted of Bucky before felt too small, impossible to hold everything that was Bucky in one image.

This would do.


	5. Chapter 5

“You know!” Clint called, “I never gave you permission to do that!”

Steve wiped sweat from his forehead, as he clung to the top wrung of the ladder he rented.  “Arrest me for vandalism!  I don’t care!” Steve called back.

He had been working all day.  The gallery opening had come and gone in a whirlwind of press and Steve started up work again at the V.A., but for the past week he had been coming out here and laying the foundation for a mural that he hoped would reach Bucky, wherever he was.  Steve was using impressions of Bucky’s paintings to create a background – his history – behind what would be a portrait of Bucky himself.  Bucky as Steve saw him.  Whole and broken all at once.  It was a message.  A message to Bucky.  The same one on the other side of the building.  If you need to find me, I’m here. 

“He doesn’t have that kind of authority!” a woman’s voice called up, smug and amused. 

Steve careened his head around to spot Natasha, elbow on Clint’s shoulder and sunglasses pushing her bangs back.  Steve capped his paint before climbing back down.  “What are you doing in New York?” he asked as he reached the bottom. 

“Saw your little speech.  Wanted to congratulate you,” Nat said, pulling a bottle of wine out of thin air.

“Uh, thanks.”

Pepper had made Steve give a speech at the gallery opening.  He supposed it went well.  The press liked it.  Pepper liked it.  Bucky was right that Steve was great at spontaneous speeches.  Steve kept hearing snippets of it on the news.

_A brainwashed P.O.W. is not responsible for his actions under Hydra.  We let this happen to our troops.  His entire unit died as lab experiments during World War II, he was just unlucky enough to survive.  We never made an attempt to save them.  Let’s save this one now._

It was a big hit.  And Pepper was right, his work and his words were winning the heart of the people.  The forums about the Shield files and Winter Soldier watch were flooded with people pulling up all his crimes and all the torture, both mental and physical, that he endured.  It was some sort of balancing act like the scales of Justice to determine if Bucky was at fault, if Bucky could be forgiven. 

People wanted to save Bucky, knowing him by his nickname thanks to Steve’s exhibit.  People wanted to burn him for his crimes and call it the true end to Hydra, while others screamed that the true end to Hydra would be giving the man his life back.

This was a public debate now.  This wasn’t something people could shove under the rug and lie about under the secrecy of classified government material.  This was a public outcry and the prevailing voice was that Bucky was innocent.

Steve looked up at his half-finished mural.  Things had moved so fast.  From the fall of Shield, to harboring a fugitive, to Clint’s return, to the art showing, to now.  Steve felt like he hadn’t had time to catch his breath.  He channeled his grief and worry over Bucky’s disappearance into his art and it was the only thing keeping his head above water.

Nat’s gift felt too heavy in his hands.  “Thanks,” he said numbly.  “Wanna come up?”

“Thought you’d never ask.”  Nat winked and Steve tried to smile. 

Back in Steve’s apartment, Nat’s cheerfulness dimmed somewhat.  She shifted between stoic and lively the way one might turn on a light.  Simple and effortless, and yet the change is drastic. 

“What is it?” Steve asks, dreading the real reason Nat came to visit.

“Certain factions are pushing for an early trial.  Still no leads on where your Bucky’s gone but they want to convict him now so any arrest sees him straight to the highest security prison possible.”

Steve felt his legs give out.  He only just managed to fall onto the armrest of the couch.  “I hate this,” Steve hissed.  “God, I feel like such a useless failure.”

“There’s nothing you could do, Steve,” Clint insisted, taking the bottle of wine from his hands. 

“We shouldn’t have gone public.  The gallery was a mistake.  It should have been just the two of you, trying to bring him – bring him back.”

Natasha squatted in front of Steve, placing a hand on Steve’s knee.  It was more gentle than most imagined her capable of.  “No matter what happens, I believe in James.  He’s the most capable man I’ve ever known.  When we knew each other in the past, it was the humanity that he clung onto that helped me become something more than the weapon the Red Room designed me to be.”

Steve looked up at her.  He didn’t know Natasha well.  She was a spy with a riddled past.  Most all her history was up on the internet now, being decrypted by the same people who worked on the Winter Soldier files.  Nat had chosen to disclose her ledger to stop Hydra.  Anyone could learn about her spy history, but she was still highly skilled in manipulating others and had a personal history that she had no reason to tell Steve. 

Yet he couldn’t help but trust her.

Steve glanced to Clint.  “I thought you wanted to bring Bucky in.”

Nat smirked.  “Clint’s the one who gave me a second chance.  He was supposed to kill me.  Recruited me into Shield instead.” 

“The guy still bugs me,” Clint said with an air of defense.  He hunched his shoulders and stared off into the distance.  “Do you know how many times I hit him before he finally went down?  It wasn’t human,” Clint said.

“Yeah, actually,” Steve said.  Bucky’s wounds had healed up scarily fast.  Steve chalked it up to the human experimentation the Nazis did on him.  “Patched him up using your first aid kit myself.”

Clint laughed.  “Why do I let you live here again?”

“I think I’m a good bridge between your superhero antics and the real world,” Steve declared, the humor in him fading as his thoughts drifted back to Bucky.  “What’ll happen if they convict him?”

Nat shrugged.  “We find him first.”

“Simple as that?” he scoffed.

Nat and Clint shared a look. 

“James is the best out there.  No one’s going to find him if he doesn’t want them to.  Except, _maybe_ us,” Nat said, crossing her arms.  “Knock the Winter Soldier out of the rankings, and we’re the best there is.  Although I would argue to say I’m smarter.”

Clint smirked.  “You’d argue and win.”

“Clint just makes decent back-up.”

Steve couldn’t tell if Nat was trying to cheer him up or not, but he felt a sort of resolve fall over him.  No matter what happened, they would find a way.  They were Avengers, after all.  Between Clint and Natasha and hell, even Sam, Steve trusted that the right thing would get done in the end.

“So, are we getting drunk off of fancy wine or what?” Steve asked, heading for the kitchen to get his corkscrew.

“Oh, sweetie, that’s not enough to get anyone drunk,” Nat smiled.

Steve rolled his eyes.  “Right, you’re Russian and can probably drink a whole bottle of volkda and walk away sober.”

Nat winked. 

“I, however, am very short, very skinny, and very easily affected by alcohol.  Let _me_ get drunk at least.  If you want something for yourselves, there’s a bodega on the corner.”

Nat’s grin spread like the Cheshire Cat’s.  “I knew I liked you.  Clint, go get drinks.”

Clint sighed, half posed to argue but giving up from Nat’s look alone.  “I’ll be back in a minute.”

X

Steve was distracted, as always seemed to be the case nowadays, by thoughts of Bucky.  The trail was going on now and Steve was at work, unable to focus and probably not helping anybody.  He watched the vets in his group class, took note of how they handled their materials and gave suggestions here and there when it looked like someone was dealing with too much.  It was surreal to remember that Bucky had been here, not too long ago.  He sat with these vets, practiced art with these vets, tried to recover himself like these vets, these other humans around him. 

“Hey, Mr. Rogers?”

Steve turned to see Eli.  He scratched his cheek and Steve noticed the action was more habit than a result of the drugs he had been addicted to.  It was improvement and Steve smiled.

“Yeah?”

“I think I know what I’m making.”

“That’s great!  Can I see?”

Eli lead him back to his station where a few stacks of flat, hardened clay pieces were waiting to be assembled.  Eli picked up a few of the triangles and started moving them to make stars.  “My grandpa was a patriot, Mr. Rogers.  What I remembered of him before he passed was a man who still loved America.  He was proud of what he did as a soldier.  That’s why I joined.  ‘Cause even if he was experimented on like my ma says, my grandpa did it for America.”

“He defended this country,” Eli said, moving more of the pieces around.  “I just wish the country defended him?”  He created a pattern of stripes under the stars.  There were some extra pieces that hadn’t been dried yet that Elie put on the top around the stars.  It was fractured and suggestive, but the shape was clear.  “I guess I wanted to make him a shield.  Soldiers can’t protect the country if the country doesn’t protect their soldiers.”

Steve put a hand on Eli’s shoulder.  “I’m glad you could make this for your grandfather,” he said.  _I’m glad you could make this for yourself_.  Eli deserved to be protected.  Steve could see it now, how Eli would overcome his demons.  The boy would continue to protect people, anyway he could find.  Just like Steve. 

“Sorry about your friend,” Eli said.

“What?”

“The one with the man bun and one arm that came in a few weeks back?  You can’t really hide it was the dude from your art show, man.”  Eli shrugged, the change of subject helping him feel less vulnerable.  “He was cool.  He deserves a shield, too.”

Steve smiled sadly.  He had finished his mural a couple of days ago, all the images of Bucky’s sordid past a soft blur behind the vulnerable, unmasked face of the man Bucky really was.  Nat was right in that Bucky was the best. He was smart and strong and skilled, but he was also so desperately in need of someone to lean on.  He could survive alone, but he needed a friend, a support group, he needed to be cared for.  That was the shield Bucky needed after all his years in the hands of Hydra.  Bucky needed a shield of humanity.

“Yeah.  Yeah, he does.”

X

The trail didn’t hit the news until Steve was on his way home for the day.  Those involved had tried to keep it secret from the public and the party pushing for a pardon.  Steve wasn’t optimistic.  When his phone buzzed in his pocket, he was expecting an update from Nat, who had eyes on the inside. 

It was from Sam.

There was a link to a CNN post and Steve followed, hovering outside the subway entrance to maintain service.  There had been a call out on the trial.  Someone had let it leak to the press and people were protesting the unjust nature of a trial for someone alive and not present to defend themselves.  There were protestors outside the capitol and the supreme court.  Some of them even carried signs with Steve’s words on them.  _Save this one_. 

The trial was proceeding into the next day, but it was going to be public this time.  It was a compromise, at least.  The terror of the unknown was replaced with suspense he could follow in real time.  It wasn’t any easier on Steve’s heart. 

Steve spent the subway ride home racking his brain for something more he could have done.  Would Bucky have stayed if he told him about Clint?  Or would he have disappeared sooner?  If they did find him, would he even trust Steve now?  Or is Bucky making a new life under a new name, forgetting the artist who wasn’t sure how to help and fucked it all up…

He missed his stop.  It wasn’t a big deal, he just got off at the next one and had to march it backwards a few blocks to get home.  Wasn’t worth switching sides and taking the subway one stop.

Coming from this direction meant he could see his mural a few blocks off.  Some people had left trinkets near the base like it was some kind of memorial.  Flowers, teddy bears in little World War II uniforms, signs calling against Hydra and Shield and the government and the military.  It made Steve’s heart bottom out.  Bucky wasn’t dead.  He was alive and learning to live.  He was a person, and that’s what Steve was trying to show the world.

They were turning him into another point of propaganda.  A martyr or a scapegoat, it was anyone’s guess at this point. 

Steve stood and stared at the mural, trying to find the man in the painting, as if his work could summon Bucky out of thin air.  He was being selfish, he knew it.  Bucky deserved to find peace.  It didn’t need to be with Steve.

He sighed and tried to keep his eyes down the rest of the walk home. 

X

Steve sneezed into Lucky’s fur, holding the dog like a lifeline.  Clint would make fun of him for moping, but Steve had literally been kicked out of the V.A. by Carol.  She didn’t want his negative attitude to affect group.  And since he didn’t have anything except a personal session that had gotten canceled, she sent him home. 

Now Steve was getting pizza and beer with Clint to keep his mind off the trial as everything went down.  It wasn’t working.  “Bro, calm down,” Clint said, coming back with another can for each of them.  “Either they get him and we go all vigilante justice again, or they don’t and we play hero and get him help.”

“That’s if you find him,” Steve groaned, burrowing his nose into Lucky’s collar.  His eyes itched but he didn’t care.  “Shouldn’t you be out looking for him?”

“That’s more a job for the tech side of stuff.  Nat’s got it covered.  Trust us.”

Steve did trust them.  He was just anxious and felt like he was going to puke.  The trial coverage was on Clint’s TV, muted with subtitles.  Nat was there.  A character witness.  Her on again off again never quite really a boyfriend Matt was the lawyer acting as defense attorney for Bucky.  He was from New York, but Nat called him down specially for this and he was happy to oblige. 

Steve wasn’t sure what was happening.  He kept his face in a tuft of Lucky’s fur for a reason.  Clint relayed anything important.  Read: one of the lawyers has a mustard stain on his shirt.  He lifted his head to take the beer Clint brought over and caught sight of Nat on screen.  He couldn’t focus his eyes enough to read the subtitles.

This didn’t matter, he reminded himself.  The outcome of this trial didn’t matter.  Bucky was going to be fine either way.  Nat would make sure of it.  He could see that in her eyes.

And then people were moving.  “What’s happening?” Steve asked, popping the lid of his beer. 

“That’s it.  They’re going into deliberations, or whatever the fuck.  I’m not a lawyer.” 

Steve rolled his eyes and chugged half the can.  Only a few more minutes then.  “What’s our next move?” Steve asked, as if he could be a part of any move they made.  “I mean, you have to have a few plans in place.”

“I plan on watching all the episodes of Dog Cop I missed last month.”

“I’m serious, Clint.”

“Me too,” Clint shrugged.  “I’m telling you, bro, stop thinking too hard.  Everything’s being done that can be done right now.”

Steve sneezed.  He knew that was true.  It didn’t help settle the uneasiness in his stomach any.

“Tell me about your niece,” Steve said, looking for any kind of distraction.

“Ahhh, yeah, Kate’s a force of nature.”  Clint leaned back in his chair and picked up a handful of darts that were sitting on the side table.  He tossed them lazily at the dartboard across the room, barely even looking, as he talked.  “My brother Barney is more of a mess than I am, right?  Like, I’ve only been divorced once and suck at commitment.  He’s been married _three times_ and Kate wasn’t with any of them.  The girl he was seeing on the side gave Kate up for adoption.  She got picked up by some rich bitch snob.  Records weren’t sealed so once Kate got curious she had the means and money to find her biological parents.”

“Oh,” Steve said, not sure what else to express. 

The dartboard now had a perfect circle of darts pinned to it.  Clint pushed himself to standing and went to pull the darts out.

“Yeah.  Found Barney.  They have a shit relationship.  But I reached out to her.  Like, she’s family.  I never want kids, but she’s already grown mostly so I figured what’s a bit of mentoring, right?”  Clint sat back down and started at the dart board again, making a smiley face this time.  “Kid just needed an outlet for all the bullshit her father does.  Nothing like abusive, but like, guess having shit dads who forget about you runs in the family even when you get taken out of the family.  So, I taught her how to be a carnie.”

One last dart hit the board at the bullseye point, a nose to the face. 

“Is that what she meant by being ‘a Hawkeye’?”

Clint shrugged, but he looked proud.  “Kid’s got talent.  And she’s whip smart, too.  I’ve got no problem with her wanting to be like me.  Well, no.  Like Nat maybe.  I’m a deadbeat.  She can do better.”

“Yeah, okay,” Steve laughed.  “I think America would like her.”

“Oh, fuck, yeah.  Would I be a better uncle if I do or don’t introduce them?”

“Depends on your definition of better.” 

Steve looked back at the TV screen and nearly dropped his beer when he saw that people were already returning to their seats.  “I can’t watch,” Steve said, moving to the kitchen and chugging the rest of his beer. 

Everything from the living room was quiet for too long.  All he could hear was the unsteady beat of his own heart.  And then –

“Holy fucking shit!”

Steve raced back into the living room.  “What.  What’s the verdict?”  Were they going to go full out black ops retrieval mission on Bucky?  Were they declaring him too dangerous, to shoot on site if found?  Were they –

“He’s been pardoned.”  Clint looked to Steve just as surprised and confused as Steve did. 

“Pardoned?”

“Anything time stamped before today.  They’re declaring it as crimes committed under duress, against his will.  He’s not charged for anything.”

“Are they still going after him?” Steve asked, heart having leaped up into his throat.  He barely managed it back to the couch before he couldn’t keep himself standing. 

“Probably.  I mean, our government’s a power-hungry attack dog.  But not officially.  If we find him first and do something public, it’ll force their hand.”

The race was still on, then.  But it felt like there was a new finish line. 

X

Things were surreal in their normality.  Steve painted.  Steve went to work.  Steve talked to Carol and Eli and a whole bunch of other vets, some who he knew well and others he didn’t. 

The only thing that took him out of the haze of his day to day was when Pepper scheduled a press conference.  With no gallery showing to disguise the meaning behind it, Steve was a lot more nervous.  Nobody wanted to hear his thoughts and opinions on matters concerning Bucky.  People had already made up their minds. 

He spoke anyway.  Pepper helped control questions.  She was amazing at that, so Steve didn’t have to face anything too challenging.  He talked about his paintings at the Met and his mural in Brooklyn.  He told them that just because the trail pardoned Bucky didn’t mean this was over.  There were so many vets out there who were treated as second class citizens because they needed help that the government wasn’t giving their military post service. 

“Bucky may be pardoned for the crimes he was forced to commit,” he told them, “and for that I am so terribly grateful, but in terms of where he is now and what this might mean on a larger political scale, I can’t say.  I only hope that Bucky is getting the help he deserves.” 

When the conference was over and Pepper was pulling him off stage with humble _thank you_ s into the microphone, Steve felt light headed and winded.  He almost wished to go back to the haze of surrealness that had been following him around.

“You did great,” Pepper said before bending down and kissing Steve’s cheek.  “And thank you _so much_ for the arm for Tony to tinker with.  It’s been a great stress relief for him to get frustrated over technology he doesn’t quite understand.  He thinks he’s figured out where it had started malfunctioning.  If Natasha is able to bring Bucky home, Tony is more than happy to develop a new arm for him.  In fact, I might push that to be our next Stark Tech.  Prosthetics.  Nothing with weapons or wifi, for once.”

Steve smiled.  “That would be great.” 

Pepper offered to give Steve a ride back to his apartment, but he declined.  He needed time to regroup and the lull of the subway would do him good.  He almost fell asleep this time, startling to full wakefulness when he noticed the doors were closing on his stop.

“Damnit!” he cursed before breathing deeply.  It was fine.  The walk wasn’t long.  He’s done in a hundred times before.  Steve missed his stop on a fair occasion.

Once out of the subway, Steve kept his eyes down, not wanting to see Bucky’s face staring him down from the wall of his apartment.  Maybe the mural was a mistake if it brought up this many emotions just knowing he was in its line of sight.

Steve reached a crosswalk and had to lift his head to check for cars when he saw it.

Someone had painted over his mural.

Not completely.  The majority of the piece was still the same.  Bucky’s face was untouched.   It was the rest of it.  The soft, blurred background that was a piecemeal of Bucky’s history.  You could still see most of it, make out each section underneath the new art, but there _was_ new art.  Thick strokes by a wide brush and a limited color pallet could be interpreted as something generic, but over every memory Steve was staring at copies of himself. 

Over the hydra pulling Bucky under the water was Steve, asleep on the couch with a blanket tucked over him.  Over the operating lights were Steve’s blue eyes.  Over the empty window was Steve in the kitchen.  Over the abstract sensation of free falling in the alps was the view from Steve’s fire escape.  Some were just shadowed impressions and others were carefully detailed the same way Bucky had tried so hard to make his later pieces. 

The way _Bucky_ had.

Steve ran.  He ran the last three blocks, barely looking for oncoming traffic.  The elevator was broken again and he barreled his way up the stairs.  He couldn’t breathe but it didn’t matter.  His hands shook as he tried to fit his key into the lock.  And when Steve pushed open the door, like déjà vu, he was there.

He gasped, lungs fighting for air.  His vision spotted out and something was pressed into his hand and guided to his lips.  Steve pressed down and inhaled on reflex.  His vision cleared as he took in a deep breath and as he stared, only part of the lightheadedness came from the asthma attack. 

Bucky’s eyes were so pale like the clearest ocean water.  They were close enough Steve could dive right into them.

“You’re here,” Steve wheezed.

“I never went far,” Bucky whispered. 

Steve could feel tears on his cheeks.  He flinched at the unexpected touch of Bucky’s thumb wiping the wet streak away.  The skin was course but so gentle.  “You’re _here_ ,” Steve said again.  He didn’t know what else to say.  It was the only thought in his mind, circling back over and over again, unable to processes. 

“I’m still dangerous,” Bucky said, as if continuing a different conversation.  “Being pardoned doesn’t change that.”

Steve squeezed the inhaler in his hand, a part of his brain telling him it wasn’t the one in his pocket.  Bucky had this on him.  “You’re here,” he said, the words falling out of his mouth like flower petals. 

“I’m here,” Bucky confirmed. 

Steve threw his arms around Bucky and squeezed as tightly as his frail body was capable of.  After a moment, Bucky let his arm settle across Steve’s back, holding him closely.  Steve, on his toes, rested his head in the crook of Bucky’s neck and breathed him in, as if needing to confirm Bucky was there with all of his senses. 

“I was so worried,” Steve whispered once his heart rate slowed and his breath evened.  He held on tighter. 

“I know,” Bucky said.  His voice rumbled low in his chest and Steve could feel it in his body. 

Steve wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that, but it eventually reached the point where they slipped out of each other’s embrace, but neither strayed from the spot they stood in.

“I wanted to come back earlier,” Bucky said.  “I think it was best I didn’t.” 

Steve nodded in understanding.  Bucky had no way of trusting Clint, and then people could have been watching Steve’s apartment after the gallery opening. 

“I had things I needed to figure out for myself,” he said.  “I needed to know that I could do this without you and I needed to know that my emotions weren’t reliant on you acting as caregiver.”

“What?” Steve asked.  His head felt a little fuzzy from the run and the asthma and from Bucky being so close.  He wasn’t sure what Bucky meant.

Bucky smirked, a soft playful expression Steve hadn’t seen before.  It made his heart pick up tempo again.  “You’re color blind.”

“Yeah?”

“You never saw how good you are just because it was mixed in with a bit of selfishness,” Bucky explained.

“Oh.”  He still wasn’t sure what Bucky was getting at.

“And because you were so worried about your own selfishness, you never caught onto mine.  It faded too easily into the rest of my behavior.”

Steve frowned.  “I don’t understand.”

Bucky smiled, as if he expected this.  “I promise you, I never thought about this with your grandfather.”  Bucky placed his rough palm against Steve’s cheek and guided him up.

The words faded into the background of Steve’s mind as their lips touched.  His heart was filled to bursting, roaring in his ears like fireworks.  When Bucky pulled away Steve blinked and was thrust harshly back into reality.  There were no clichés, no filtering of perception, no wondrous moment of clarity.  There was only him and Bucky and Steve’s paint filled apartment in New York. 

The world’s deadliest assassin had just kissed him.

He was possibly, maybe, almost definitely in love the world’s deadliest assassin. 

“Will you let me be selfish with you?” Bucky asked carefully, looking for any sign to bolt again and this time never come back.

Steve snapped his hand up to grab Bucky’s wrist, keeping him there.  His life the past few weeks, the mundane routine of therapy sessions and art lessons and painting commissions had felt like walking through a dream.  He felt like a piece of paper floating through each moment of the day.  

Here, now, in the strangest scenario he could have possibly imagined for himself or for anyone at all, Steve felt grounded.  This was real.  Bucky was here.

Steve brought his other hand up to touch Bucky’s cheek in copy of how Bucky held his.  “I wasn’t sure I was ever going to see you again,” Steve admitted.  “And I didn’t realize exactly how much you had turned my world off kilter until just now.  I don’t ever want to miss you again.”

This time, when they kissed, Steve didn’t let up until he needed to breathe again.

“So that’s a yes?” Bucky asked, a soft smile lighting up his face. 

Steve could feel more tears stream down his cheeks.  “You can be selfish with me as long as I can be selfish with you.”

“Deal.”

Steve pulled Bucky down for another kiss.  He sighed into his mouth and let their foreheads fall together.  “We have to tell Clint and Natasha.  We’re supposed to set up something public so no one can steal you away.”

Bucky kissed the corner of Steve’s mouth.  “No one’s taking me anywhere.”

“Tony Stark wants to make you a new arm.  _Iron Man_ wants to make you an arm.”

“By the sound of your voice, I think I’m supposed to be impressed.” 

Steve nodded.  “If you want it.  It’ll be amazing.  The CEO of Stark Industries wants to roll out a whole line of prosthetics.” 

“Steve?”

“Yeah?”

“Tomorrow.”

“What?”

“We can discuss everything tomorrow.  Right now.”  Bucky sighed and stepped back.  His eyes mapped Steve like he was cataloguing any perceived change.  “I’m starving.  Do you want to order Chinese?  I like the General Tso’s.”

Steve grinned.  “Yeah.  Okay.  Want to get those Crab Rangoon things too?” 

Bucky nodded.  “Yeah.  I like those.”

X

Tony closed the last plate on Bucky’s arm, tapping it gently with the mirco wrench or whatever it was he had been twisting inside.  “Update complete.  Too bad we can’t use you for the face of the product launch, but your arm is not industry standard.  Such a waste of a pretty face,” Tony sighed with exaggeration. 

Bucky rolled his eyes and hopped off the chair Tony had placed out for him.  It was a monthly arrangement to get the arm inspected or updated with anything “new and cool” Tony had invented.  Bucky’s arm wouldn’t be compatible with the new line of prosthetics they were in trials with because it had to match up with the base already soldered into his body.

Tony never stopped grumbling about the idiots from the 50s being crude and not refined enough to attempt this kind of technology.  “I did a better job in a cave in the desert than they did at their peak facilities,” he often exclaimed. 

Bucky was more than tired of Tony Stark at this point, but he kept going because he liked having two arms.  That being said, Bucky also regularly took off his new arm because he didn’t feel like it just then.  The point was, he had a choice and Bucky regularly exercised it.  Steve was always proud about that.

“Thanks, Tony,” Steve said, pulling his scarf out of his hat to start bundling up.  “And thanks again for the Christmas party invite.  We’ll try to make it.”

“Try to?” Tony scoffed.  “What could possibly be more exciting to your lives than having a party at casa de la Stark?” 

Steve looked to Bucky who was giving Steve a look that clearly indicated how much he wanted to punch Tony in the face.  Just once.  To get it out of his system.  He’ll even use his non-robotic arm.  Bucky had made this argument many times in the past. 

It had been a relatively warm winter so far.  Things never got super cold until January, anyways.

“We’re taking off, for a few months,” Steve said.  “Haven’t figured out when we’re going to leave just yet.”

“Taking off?” Tony asked before turning to Bucky.  “I spend a whole two hours on your arm and you don’t mention once that you’re going on vacation?  What about your next checkup?”

Bucky rolled his eyes.  “The arm’s been fine.  I think I can miss an appointment.”

Tony crossed his arms, clearly unhappy with the fact he would be separated from his favorite toy for so long.  “Fine, you’re right.  My technology is amazing and of course can hold up for longer than a month.  I don’t make things to break, unlike some companies I could mention.  Where are you guys going?”

Steve pulled his hat on before fishing out his gloves from his coat pocket.  He looked up to Bucky and smiled. 

Their lives together weren’t perfect.  Bucky still struggled a lot with nightmares and sleeping in general.  Memories would surface unbidden all the time and they had to keep finding new ways to cope with the trauma and the stress.  But they had each other.  Neither of them wanted to ever let go.

Bucky smiled back.

“Someplace warm.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading.


End file.
